


Trente Jours

by lenaballena



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: 30 day challenge, Angst and Humor, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Fluff and Humor, Humor, Les Amis is a ship okay, Multi, one gigantic brotp
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-06
Updated: 2014-04-08
Packaged: 2017-12-22 14:38:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 22
Words: 61,029
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/914369
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lenaballena/pseuds/lenaballena
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Les Amis are a family.</p>
<p>Sure, they are a dysfunctional, crazy, mildly incestuous, politically formidable, highly pretentious, strangely french-named, often-mistaken-for-some-sort-of-satanic-cult kind of family, but they're a family nonetheless.</p>
<p>And this is their story.</p>
<p>(or: thirty days of les amis otps, in which the otp to end all otps is Les Amis itself)</p>
<p>
  <b>[abandoned but it never had all that much of an underlining plotline so you're not missing out]</b>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Holding Hands

**Author's Note:**

> So, these are all seperate parts of one story, but the timeline does jump around a bit. You have been warned.

Enjolras and Grantaire are sharing a booth in what the group has affectionately dubbed the Cafe of Guilt, Enjolras nursing a chai latte, and Grantaire drinking his coffee (black, and he’d make the joke about it being like his soul, but that’s Bahorel’s catchphrase). They call it the Cafe of Guilt because it isn’t the Musain, but it is closer to where they live. The baristas are assholes and no one gives them free cake, but the coffee’s decent, so sometimes they forgo their beloved meeting place for the more convenient  _Daily Grind_. Les Amis have never quite escaped the feeling that they’re betraying the Musain by supporting a rival coffeeshop, however, so they try to avoid it when they can. However, desperate times and all that.

Grantaire’s got his sketchbook in front of him and is shading in the details of an arm (which is, surprisingly, not Enjolras’, but instead the arm of the waitress who brought them their coffee, who had a winding vine tattooed around her wrist and up her arm) thoughtfully, when Enjolras finally looks up from his tea.

"I’m pretty sure we’re doing this wrong." He says quietly, and watches as Grantaire finishes his arm detail.

"Hmm?" Grantaire looks up as he makes a questioning little noise, and Enjolras huffs.

"This-" He gestures between them. “We’re doing it wrong."

Grantaire raises an eyebrow. "…sitting?"

"Don’t be ridiculous." Enjolras shakes his head, and leans across the table to say “Not sitting, _dating._ " in a hushed voice,  and Grantaire’s brow furrows in confusion.

"How are we  _dating_  wrong?" He says slowly, in his most rational voice.

Enjolras makes a little scrunched up face. “I don’t know, but I’m sure we are."

Grantaire nods, slowly. “Okay. And your evidence for this is…?"

"Well, it doesn’t  _feel_  like dating. It feels like being friends, and occasionally kissing and stuff. Shouldn’t it feel… different?" He says, frustrated.

Grantaire laughs, and leans back in his chair. “Enj, dating is pretty much just being friends and occasionally kissing and stuff. If you start dating one of your friends, it’s seriously not that different, other than the obligations of a relationship."

"Which are?" Enjolras’ fingers twitch, just the slightest, and Grantaire can tell he wants to get out a notepad and write down Dating 101, to be later converted into a word document and notarized.

"Well, you know, weekly dates, presents on anniversaries, monogamy unless it’s been previously established that monogamy isn’t expected- which it is, by the way." Grantaire gets serious violent feelings when he thinks about sharing Enjolras, and it’s better they clear that up right now.

"Obviously." Enjolras huffs, rolling his eyes, and Grantaire grins.

"We have to tell our friends this time, because we seriously cannot do secret dating. Or- whatever that was."

"Agreed." Enjolras nods once, and Grantaire is once again struck by an overwhelming fondness for this revolutionary idiot.

"You have to model for me now, and let me force you to try new foods. And I have to go to rallies and pretend to care about things. Compromise is essential. It is law. I’d say we have to argue less, but we’ve got a snowball’s chance in hell of that happening." He says with a grin, taking a long sip of his coffee.

Enjolras hums thoughtfully. “How often are we expected to have sex?"

Grantaire almost spews the coffee all over the table. He looks up at Enjolras and the asshole is smirking at him, because he’s a dick like that. Grantaire swallows the mouthful of coffee, and winks at Enjolras as he runs his tongue over his lips (because of the coffee, obviously). “Whenever we want is generally recommended."

"Ah." Enjolras has that ‘i’m processing things, leave me alone’ face on, and Grantaire waits patiently for his boyfriend (and he will  _never_  get over the fact that he can call Enjolras that) to come to a conclusion. “Well, okay then. And I can kiss you in public now, right?"

"Please." Grantaire says with a smile, and Enjolras grins back and leans across the table to kiss him, slowly, on the mouth.

Enjolras hums happily as he pulls away. “Okay, I think I’m gonna like this."

"Well, good. That’s kinda the point of dating. For you to like it." Grantaire says, closing his sketchbook. “Well now that we’ve established that we are, in fact, dating the right way, should we go?"

Enjolras makes a little whining noise, and slumps a little in his chair. “I really don’t want to."

"We have to tell them eventually." Grantaire says, standing up and collecting his things.

"But- he’ll do the dance. I  _hate_  the dance." Enjolras whines, and Grantaire pats him on the head understandingly.

"I know sweetie. Come on." Grantaire isn’t looking forward to coming out to their friends, either. Courfeyrac will most certainly do his happy dance, Cosette will most likely tackle him to the ground, Bossuet will probably choke on something out of shock (he wonders what it’ll be this time) and Eponine is definitely gonna punch him for not telling her first.

Enjolras pulls his leather messenger bag from where it’s hanging over the cafe chair. “Fine, um… darling."

Grantaire raises an eyebrow. " _Darling_?" Not something he’d ever expected to ever come out of Enjolras’ mouth. Ever. Hearing terms of endearment from Enjolras a bit like seeing Musichetta embarrassed, or watching Bahorel back down from a fight. It’s weird, off-putting, and very much not the natural order of things.

Enjolras blushes slightly, and shrugs. “Are… are terms of affection not recommended in a relationship? I thought- well, Cosette and Marius, and Courfeyrac and Jehan-"

"Still call each other ‘my sun and stars’ and ‘moon of my life’," Grantaire says, shaking his head. “Enjolras, do you really want me to address you as light of my life all the time?"

Enjolras makes a face at that. “God no, Apollo was bad enough."

"Hey, I called you that, like, twice."

"Twenty-six times total, actually. " And  _of course_  he would’ve counted the times.

Grantaire laughs as they walk to the doors. “I called you sweetie as a term of condescension, not affection. I mean, c’mon." He says, holding the handle of the glass door, and turning to raise an eyebrow at Enjolras. “Our terms of affection are ‘annoying drunk’ and ‘idealistic freak’. We don’t do cutesy names."

"Oh, thank god." Enjolras says, relieved, as he steps out into the street. “I cannot possibly tell you how unappealing calling you ‘cupcake’ and ‘baby’ seemed."

Grantaire shuddered involuntarily. Yeah, those were words that should probably never come out of Enjolras’ mouth again. “Please never call me cupcake. You do, and this entire relationship will end immediately."

"Agreed." Enjolras nods, and they set off towards the Musain, for the Les Amis meeting. Their first as an official couple. “I don’t understand why we were so averse to dating before, it’s really nothing different. And taking away that element of sneaking around makes everything a lot easier."

"Yeah, well, anyone could’ve told you we were being idiots about it." Grantaire shrugs, and the two of them fall silent for a second.

Before he can talk himself out of it, Grantaire reaches out, holding his hand out so it’s almost touching Enjolras’. “May I?"

"Hmm?" Enjolras looks down to their hands. “Oh." He smiles then, almost beams, and threads his fingers through Grantaire’s.

His hands are soft, and just the slightest bit sweaty, which Grantaire finds endearing, because there isn’t a single goddamn thing about Enjolras that he doesn’t find endearing. They continue walking, and Grantaire knows they must make a strange sight; a beautiful man holding hands with someone who looks like Grantaire, the two of them smiling like they’ve just won the lottery. And you know what? He doesn’t give a flying fuck if they do.

"Is this another one of the perks of dating?" Enjolras says quietly, as he squeezes Grantaire’s hand.

"Oh, most certainly." Grantaire says seriously.

Enjolras makes a little noise of approval, and Grantaire feels a tugging on his hand and follows it, only to be pulled into a kiss by his boyfriend. Enjolras doesn’t let go of his hand throughout the kiss, but he brings the other one up to frame Grantaire’s jaw, as Grantaire holds onto his waist.

When they break apart, Enjolras’ lips are shiny, and his eyes are gleaming. It’s a  _really_  good look on him. “Second best perk." He says quietly, nodding towards their intertwined hands.

Grantaire smiles, the two of them maybe four inches apart. “And what’s the best?"

Enjolras looks at him like he can’t believe a human being could ever be so stupid. Grantaire’s received hundreds of these looks from him in the past, but never before have they looked so fond. His heart, the traitor that it is, beats faster in his chest.

"I get to kiss you whenever I want." Enjolras says, like it’s obvious, and Grantaire beams at him, heart beating faster by the second.

He doesn’t respond, just kisses Enjolras softly, on the lips, for a few seconds. He tugs on his revolutionary’s hand, and leads them towards the Musain, their friends, and the rest of their lives. …oh  _god_  that was cheesy. Do you see what this idiot is doing to Grantaire? Turning him into a romantic.

Okay, yeah. He kinda likes it. Shut up.

(It turns out to be a bagel, by the way. Bossuet chokes on his bagel)

 


	2. Cuddling Somewhere

"Come on, slowpoke. We ain’t got all day."

Jehan lifts his head, a defiant glare in his eyes. “Astute observation, being that it’s night-time."

"Potato, potato." Courfeyrac shrugs, pushing the door open and stepping out with a smirk.

Jehan rolls his eyes, and calls ahead, “I think you’re supposed to pronounce one of those differently."

"One of what?" Courfeyrac’s voice comes, muffled, through the door.

Jehan pushes open the door and steps out onto the roof carefully. “One of the potatoes."

Courfeyrac laughs, and Jehan feels his stomach flutter at the sound. It’s by no means a pretty laugh; it’s somewhere between a donkey’s bray and a witches cackle, and it’s always accompanied by a very unnatractive nose crinkle.

Jehan wishes he didn’t find it so damn adorable.

Courfeyrac grabs Jehan’s hand with a smile, tugging on it not unlike an impatient child. “Come on, come on, you’ll miss it!"

"Miss  _what_ , exactly?"

"Um…" Courfeyrac flushes a little, but his grin only widens. “Okay, there’s nothing to miss, really, but I wanna show you."

Jehan sighs, exasperated, and lets his friend tug him around to the other side of the roof. He honestly can’t believe he’s out here right now. (Just this morning he had a final exam, and the night before he had slept for a grand total of maybe seventeen and a half minutes. He had been in bed,  _asleep_ , when at a quarter to midnight, he was woken by a shower of rocks falling on his face.

"What the everliving  _fuck_." He had said, when he looked out his window to see a very guilty looking Courfeyrac.

"You… I thought your window would be closed."

"It’s eighty-six degrees out, Courf." Jehan grumbled, still half asleep.

"Well, that explains the lack of windowness, then. Come on, gotta show you something."

"Fuck off." 

Courfeyrac had just grinned, like the cheeky bastard he was. “Not gonna."

"I was  _sleeping_ , you giant squash waffle." 

"Would you look at that past tense?" Courfeyrac had whistled, using his very best southern accent. “Whoo-ee, that was is a _beaut_."

"I fucking hate you, you know that?" Jehan had groaned, and Courfeyrac just  hummed, rocking on the balls of his feet. “Gimme five minutes." )

Courfeyrac pulled Jehan to the edge of the building, then stopped. “Ta-da!"

Jehan looked down, and mentally cursed every god he’d ever heard of. Jehan was a romantic in love with a man who didn’t believe in relationships, which sucked ass enough on its own. But there was nothing worse than going for a friendly outing with said commitment-phobe and discovering that he’d prepared a wonderful midnight picnic under the stars. On a rooftop. And had hung golden lights around so the blanket glowed under a soft light. 

"Congrats on finishing the finals from hell." Courfeyrac said quietly, threading his arms through Jehan’s and holding him against his chest. Which in no way helped the romantic mood, but Jehan just pushed all homoerotic thoughts from his mind. Courfeyrac was a very tactile person; warm embraces were his oxygen.  "Never,  _ever_  take any finals ever again. When you stress the entire group suffers, also, frowns were simply not meant for that beautiful face."

Oh for fuck’s sake. It’s like he couldn’t even be nice without flirting, or spouting romantic prose. “I’ll have to take them next year, Courf." He sighs, resting happily against Courfeyrac’s chest.

"Nope, refusing to believe it, do not want." Courfeyrac laughs, and lets go of Jehan, who immediately shivers a little at the lack of body heat. He flounces over to the chequered cloth (of  _course_  he’d go for the traditional picnic blanket) and sits, cross legged, eagerly patting the spot next to him.

Jehan can’t help it; he smiles, and walks over to sit next to Courf. “Please tell me you packed coffee or soda or some other awakening beverage."

Courfeyrac grins, and pulls out a silver thermos. “Rooibos vanilla chai, actually."

Jehan makes a little breathy noise involuntarily. “You’re a god among men, Courf."

Coufeyrac blushes then, and shrugs. “You mentioned once that it was the kind of tea that made you want to listen to old music and watch stars fade in and out in the sky."

See what he has to deal with? The romantic moonlight picnic, the remembering of tiny, insignificant details, the fucking _pebbles thrown at his window_. It’s so amazingly romantic Jehan’s in danger of kissing Courfeyrac stupid at any given moment. “You’re a beautiful human being. All this just because I was stressing over finals?"

"Well," Courfeyrac stammers a little, eyes flicking to the candle he’s fumbling to light. “I convinced Eponine to give Combeferre a massage, which he will owe me for until the day he dies, I ‘accidentally’ locked Grantaire and Enjolras in a room together in the middle of the argument, so both of them should be thanking me for the stress release, whether they got it on, or not."

"Ah," Jehan interrupts, not at all stung by the realization that Courfeyrac is just trying to make all of his friends feel better after their final exams. “So you’re relieving post-exam stress?"

"Mm-hmm," Courfeyrac hums. “Joly got a day at the aquarium with Musichetta, Bahorel got a bar fight, Feuilly got a tai chi partner, and I get a lovely picnic with my favourite poet."

Jehan smiles, and accepts the plate of grapes and cheese and mini-cinnamon rolls (his favorite pastry, because Courfeyrac remembers things like that). “So, what now?"

"Now, we lay back and look at the stars, take occasional bites of delicious food, and, if the night guards realize we snuck up here, run like hell."

Jehan giggles, and moves his braid to the side, scrunching up as he lies on his back, suddenly met with the sight of a sky, flickering with stars and various vehicles of aviation. As Courfeyrac shuffles next to him, Jehan imagines what it would be like to have a boyfriend to do things like this with. They’d sneak out in the middle of the night, hold each other close as they whispered new names for constellations, finding new patterns in the stars and making them their own. Maybe one day, he’ll have someone other than the group flirt treat him like he was something special, and do romantic, spontaneous things for him just for the hell of it.

Jehan is snapped out of his (admittedly depressing) thoughts by the sound of light music drifting through the air.

"What’s this?" He murmurs, turning to Courfeyrac, who’s suddenly a lot closer than he expected, so close Jehan could count his freckles, if he felt so inclined. (he doesn’t, because he knows there are seventeen, he’s known as much for months) 

"It’s my Jehan playlist. Songs that make me think of you." Courfeyrac smiles, his little vaguely crooked grin,  and has Jehan mentioned yet how beautiful he finds Courfeyrac’s skin? It’s the colour of hot cocoa with just this side of too little milk, and yeah, he knows it’s not the best description of color his poetic mind has ever thought up, but it fits. Courfeyrac reminds him of his mother’s hot chocolate, warm and full of love and forever accompanied by an indescribable feeling of home. Courfeyrac, completely oblivious to the ode Jehan is compiling to his skin color, continues. “This is one of your favorites, yeah?"

It’s Romeo and Juliet, by the Dire Straights, and fucking shit yeah it’s one of his favorites. He just smiles and nods, staring dreamily into Courfeyrac’s eyes as the two of them lie, face to face, in the darkness. He reaches out a slow, delicate hand and traces the outline of Courfeyrac’s nose slowly. He’s traced every part of his friend’s face but the nose, and now seems like the right time. 

Courfeyrac laughs softly, nuzzling into Jehan’s other hand, which is holding his jaw lightly. “You’ll miss the stars." He whispers, and Jehan feels a heated breath on his wrist and sighs.

"Almost done."

"What’cha lookin’ for, Je?"

Jehan sighs, and continues tracing slowly. “A flaw."

"Don’t have to look hard, then." Courfeyrac says with a grin, and brings his hand up to pull Jehan’s wrist away. “You can trace the honker any old day. We’re here to see the stars."

Jehan sticks out his lower lip, just the slightest bit of a pout, and turns reluctantly away from Courfeyrac. “They’re beautiful."

Courfeyrac hums a little in agreement next to him. “When I was little my cousin and I used to sneak up onto the roof of the pool house and look up at the stars. We didn’t know any constellations; we were like seven, so we made up our own."

A pointer finger appears in Jehan’s line of vision, and Jehan’s eyes follow it on instinct. “See that?" Courfeyrac whispers, and his eyes find a small cluster of stars, swirling around each other in two groups, as if one group is pulling in the other, and at the same time pushing it away. “I think I’ll call it- stupid revolutionaries aggressively in love."

Jehan laughs softly. “Enjolras and Grantaire?"

"I’m not good with poetic names, but don’t they look all-  _I’m gonna push you away and cry for weeks if you don’t come back-y_?"

"Surprisingly accurate, actually."

Courfeyrac nudges him in the side. “So what do you see?"

Jehan sees a romantic fantasy coming to life, just without the romance, that’s what he fucking sees. He mentally thumps his head against a wall before pointing up at the sky. “See those two stars? Almost touching, so close they look less than a millimetre apart to us, but in reality they’re probably millions of miles away from each other, not even in the same state of being. One of them could burn out… and the other wouldn’t even notice." Bitter? Who’s bitter?

"Oh." Coufeyrac says quietly, and Jehan freezes. Was that harsh? Was that  _too_  harsh?

"Yeah, oh." He says, because even if it was, he’s gonna damn well stand his ground.

"So you noticed Eponine’s major Marius sitch, too?"

If he weren’t so comfy, Jehan would pull the pillow under his head out and smother Courfeyrac to death with it. “Yeah, he’s an oblivious butthead, isn’t he?"

"Tell me about it." Courfeyrac mutters. “Ooh, and that star a little ways away? That one can be Combeferre."

Jehan chuckles in spite of himself, and doesn’t respond, so the star conversation pretty much ends there. For a little while, everything is silent, save the occasional scuff of car tires or meow of alley cat. That is, until Courfeyrac snuggles into Jehan’s side and wraps his arm around Jehan’s chest. Jehan instinctively reaches out a hand and threads his fingers through Courfeyrac’s hair, which is stupidly soft and annoyingly fluffy. Courfeyrac’s laying his head on Jehan’s chest now, and they really must submit a complaint about the lack of oxygen available on rooftops, because Jehan’s already out.

"I thought this song would be fitting. Starry nights and all. It’s a pretty song." Courfeyrac mutters, his breath tickling Jehan’s chest, and Jehan scoffs.

"And sad." Love of his life or not, Jehan will not let one of the most beautiful melancholy songs of all time be reduced to something ‘pretty’.

"Sad?" Courfeyrac sits up suddenly, raising his eyebrow at him in disbelief. “It’s about stars."

"Just… really listen to it sometime, okay? It’s not about stars, not really."

Courfeyrac hums a little in agreement, and lays his head back down on Jehan, who smiles without really realizing it. He looks up at the twinkling stars, then down at Courfeyrac, his beautiful dark skin lit by the glow of tiny fairy lights. He dog-ears this moment to save for later, making a mental note to replicate it one day, with someone who loves him back.

It’s not long after that both he and Courfeyrac fall asleep in each other’s arms.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Vincent (Starry Starry Night) by Don McLean (the song Jehan loves)  
> http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=PsxfvwuCqxo


	3. Watching A Movie

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which there is a pillow nest, bongos, gratuitous amounts of singing, and a squirrel king.

Honestly, choosing a movie should not be this difficult. Usually it isn’t; they just pop in a Disney movie and even Enjolras is happy (except for that one time they watched the Hunchback of Notre Dame and he hated it on a literary level and it inspired many long rants about the way the church is run and no one ever wants a repeat of that ever). But they’ve watched every Disney movie they own on DVD and VHS, and the only thing that’s left are those they would have to download illegally or stream on Netflix, which they can’t do because; a, there are simply too many of them to crowd around a laptop comfortably, and b, more than half of the group thought illegally downloading a Disney movie was just  _wrong_. So, scattered throughout Enjolras and Grantaire’s apartment (it’s the biggest, thanks to Enjolras’ parents), Cosette, Courfeyrac, Musichetta and Bahorel go through the couple’s DVD collection. 

Courfeyrac’s voice calls from the floor, “Ooh, Breakfast Club?”

“ _No_.” Enjolras growls from the kitchen, where he was assigned the task of Make Sure Marius and Bossuet Don’t Break the Kitchen.

"Oh, but I love that movie!" Musichetta says, sitting cross-legged behind Jehan and putting a waterfall braid in his hair. "Enjolras, shouldn’t you like its rather blatant loathing of social norms and asinine labels?" Jehan points at her in agreement.

Grantaire emerges from the bedroom, arms heavy with pillows and blankets. “I made Enjolras watch every 80s movie I could find this weekend. And Ferris Bueler’s Day Off twice.”

"Ah, got it." Courfeyrac frowns, placing the DVD back in line.

Grantaire nods, dropping his handful of comfy things on Feuilly, who is lounging across their couch (which is bloodred, thank you Enjolras and your horrible taste in furniture). Feuilly sits up with a call of ‘you  _fucker_ ' and Grantaire just grins. “Do productive things or have fluffy stuff dropped on your head. That's the rule.”

Feuilly flips him off, but stands up and begins helping Eponine with Pillow Nest Construction.

"House Bunny?" Bahorel calls, holding up the movie. "Emma Stone at her near earliest, plus-" His voice drops to an impossibly low level. "Karey May."

Feuilly rolls his eyes. “Sure, if you  _like_  the over-sexualization of women, encouragement of conforming to societal norms and-” Eponine claps a hand over his mouth.

"Shush, honey, the movie’s still funny."

"Do we have to watch a comedy?" Jehan says, not turning to look at Bahorel, for fear of disturbing the delicate process that is waterfall braiding. "Can’t we watch something  _pretty_?”

"And sad." Cosette calls from her spot on top of the kitchen counter, as she looks through the DVD and CD cupboard that they, for some reason, have in the kitchen. "What?" She says, as Enjolras raises an eyebrow at her and everyone falls silent for a second.

Marius laughs softly, and says, “Cosette likes sad movies.”

“ _Really_.” Bahorel calls, incredulous, from the living room.

"Screw you guys, I can have layers." She huffs, turning back to the movie shelf.

"Sing it, girl." Jehan says, punching his fist into the air. "Anyway, sad movies are the best movies, everyone knows that."

"Okay, so, pretty and sad. Anything else?" Grantaire says, kissing Cosette on the cheek as he grabs an apple from the fruit bowl. 

"It should-" Enjolras starts, before Courfeyrac interrupts him.

"Be about sticking it to the man?"

"Obviously." Eponine says with a smile and a roll of the eyes, as she walks out of the living room to retrieve more soft fluffy things for the Nest.

"And funny." Joly says from the centre of the Nest, before Jehan glares at him. "But, um… not  _too_  funny, obviously.”

"And a love story." Musichetta says quietly, putting a hairtie in Jehan’s hair.

"With singing!" Courfeyrac chirps.

In the end in comes down to Moulin Rouge, which Bahorel _will not watch_ , the scars from the first time are still too fresh, you fuckers, Across the Universe, which is vetoed by Eponine because she dislikes Jim Sturgess’ face, and Hair.

Hair it is, then.

**——————————————**

The pillow Nest is something of a necessity in their group, seeing as sitting on separate couches is an impossibility. They tried it once, but everyone was unhappy and no one could hear the movie. See, Enjolras dislikes watching movies without Grantaire curled around him, Grantaire can’t watch a movie without whispering about it to Eponine and re-enacting scenes with Cosette, Cosette likes to always have Marius’ arms around her and it would pretty much take a knife to separate Eponine from Combeferre (Combeferre’s a secret cuddle whore and  _everyone_  knows it). Courfeyrac has grown accustomed to using Marius as a pillow since they roomed together Sophomore and Junior year of college, and also finds it physically impossible to go long periods of time without snuggling Jehan. Combeferre and Joly are the only two in the group that actually like black licorice, so they share the package. Joly, Bossuet and Musichetta are avid cuddlers, and Musichetta and Feuilly are movie critic bros, and like to pick apart cinematography and actor choices in hushed voices. Jehan and Musichetta have been braiding each other’s hair during movies since high school, and Bahorel and Joly have never been able to go more than twenty minutes without mocking a film together. Oh, and Combeferre is the only one that will listen to Enjolras’ rants about the various things that offend him in a movie.

So, in conclusion, they must all be on top of each other at all times.

**——————————————**

It doesn’t take them long to realize that Courfeyrac, Cosette, Grantaire and Bossuet all have the movie memorized. Cosette and Grantaire sing along borderline obnoxiously to Aquarius; Grantaire in his best black woman voice, which is actually not that bad. Bossuet knows every line in the movie (seriously,  _every_  line, they shush him about fifty times before Jehan threatens to smother him with a pillow if he doesn’t shut the fuck up)

Courfeyrac does some sort of intense tango with Grantaire to ‘Sodomy’, while Enjolras watches them, eyes narrowed, and perhaps holds onto Grantaire with just a bit more intensity when the artist sits back down. Joly impresses them all by knowing all the words to ‘Manchester England’ and Courfeyrac gets up again to do a rendition of ‘I Got Life’, until Eponine throws a pillow at his face and almost breaks a lamp, and they have to pause the movie until Joly’s done laughing.

To absolutely no one’s surprise, Cosette, Courfeyrac and Jehan shout-sing along to ‘Hair’ as Bossuet pouts in Joly’s arms and glares at his girlfriend as she and Jehan take the braids out of their hair and begin whipping it in people’s faces. Grantaire pulls the tie out of Enjolras’ hair and ruffles up the yellow curls while massaging his head, and Enjolras looks far too pleased with this arrangement.

As the song ends, Bossuet grumbles at them for being show-offs until Joly shuts him up with a rather intense kiss and Musichetta gives him a neck massage.

Jehan shrieks when Grantaire whispers ‘3-5-0-0’ into his ear, and when Cosette says it’s one of her favorite songs Grantaire just looks at her with wide eyes and says quietly, “Marius, you are  _so lucky_  I’m gay.” To which Enjolras pouts a little and Marius just laughs.

By the end of the movie, Jehan is crying quietly and Cosette and Marius are holding hands, Cosette curled into Grantaire’s side, making muffled sobbing noises into his shirt, and Marius with his arms around Courfeyrac who is determinedly not crying, but instead making little gulping noises and wiping his eyes every couple of seconds. Bahorel is openly sobbing, so much that Musichetta has begun to cuddle him, french braiding his hair and whispering reassurances in his ear.

Joly and Bossuet have death grips on each other’s hands, as Bossuet makes little sniffling noises and the ever present smile on Joly’s face has faded. You wouldn’t know it to look at him, but Enjolras saw a certain element of Grantaire in Berger, and, as such, has a deathgrip around his boyfriend’s waist. He even shed a couple of tears, which he will no doubt deny if ever called out on it. (he won’t be; ever since the Fox and the Hound debacle, Les Amis have upheld a strict policy that they refer to as No Being an Asshole if a Movie Makes Someone Cry or Bahorel Will Beat Your Ass and Combeferre Will Hide the Body)

Eponine’s stroking Combeferre’s hair understandingly as the Guide wipes his glasses and shudders, just slightly. Feuilly, who has proclaimed more than once that he is dead inside, sits with his eyes glued to the screen, processing the sadness in his own special Feuilly way.

As the credits roll, Bahorel finally speaks. “You  _fuckers_.” He turns to glare at Grantaire. “Why do you even  _own_  that movie?”

Grantaire shrugs. “It’s a classic. One of my favorites.”

"I will never be happy again." Courfeyrac says quietly, and Marius whimpers in agreement.

Feuilly stares at the television, unmoving, and says tonelessly, “There is no happiness, there are only moments of happiness.” 

"Fuck you." Bahorel says, punching him in the arm, though his punch is weak and Feuilly doesn’t even flinch at it.

Eponine sighs, lifting herself out of the Nest. “You’re all ridiculous, you know that?” She pries the remote out of Enjolras’ hand, and starts skipping backwards. They listen to Aquarius again, until everyone stops crying, and then she skips forward to ‘Black Boys’. “There.” She says, standing with her hands on her hips. “Dance. Be happy, or so help me, I’ll play the ending songs again.”

Grantaire grins at her, and pulls Cosette and Courfeyrac up to dance and sing along, and soon everyone (save Enjolras and Combeferre, who have a shred of dignity left) is dancing along, singing at the top of their lungs, and sending silent apologies to the neighbours.

After the dance party and a snack, chaos falls (not that anyone is surprised). Les Amis are struck with an intense, sudden desire to become crazy hippies and sing for peace (though, let’s be honest, Jehan and Cosette  _always_  want to be crazy hippies and sing for peace), so they do just that. Jehan and Musichetta braid crowns of flowers into everyone’s hair and decorate Bossuet’s head with flowers (in sharpie, which they have wisely decided not to mention to Bossuet). Cosette and Grantaire ban everyone from the kitchen and emerge almost an hour later with a warm batch of “Grantaire’s Most-Specialest Brownies”, and Enjolras only protests a little about the stash in his kitchen. It turns out Musichetta knows how to make Henna, so she disappears for about fifteen minutes and returns with all necessary ingredients, and begins giving them all swirling designs that curl up their legs and arms as Courfeyrac hijacks the sound system and blasts various Beatles tunes. Even Enjolras relents and lets his hair out of its tie, and Grantaire paints their leader’s arms himself.

They walk as a group to their local park, and along the way Jehan hands out flowers to three policemen, a policewoman, eleven little kids, and one friendly homeless person. Cosette and Grantaire skip hand-in-hand, singing various songs from the musical, as Marius and Enjolras walk side by side, shaking their heads and laughing.

Once they arrive at the park, the sun is almost set. They pull out bongos and maracas and Marius impresses them all with his knowledge of African drumming styles. Courfeyrac and Combeferre pull out silk scarves and belly-dancing skirts (seemingly from nowhere) that no one can ever remember seeing before or again.  Musichetta and Grantaire, with the help of Jehan, show them all some traditional Indian and African dance styles, and they have what an old man feeding pigeons across the park from them calls a ‘goddamn communist cult ritual’ before falling in a circle and distributing the brownies. They lay on their backs, hands intertwined, and talk about the stars as Combeferre slowly forgets names of constellations and makes up new ones. Enjolras and Grantaire explore the meaning of free love until Courfeyrac starts hearing noises and throws a handful of grass at them.  Which, of course, starts a sluggish grass fight between Courfeyrac and Grantaire as Joly giggles for a solid five minutes.

They almost fall asleep there, but then Bahorel starts talking about getting mugged by crazy people in parks and getting pissed on by chipmunks and stray dogs, so they make their way back to the aparment. Walking proves too difficult for some, so they split it up so that Eponine is riding on Grantaire’s back, Cosette on Bahorel’s, Courfeyrac on Combeferre’s, Joly on Musichetta’s, and Bossuet, Feuilly, Enjolras and Jehan walk together, laughing as Courfeyrac shouts ‘mush!’ one too many times and Combeferre drops him on his ass.  

They get about halfway back before they realize they’ve forgotten Marius. 

When Bahorel and Courfeyrac arrive at the park to collect him, they find him crouching in a tree, talking to a squirrel. Or, at least, trying to. He has proclaimed himself king of the squirrels, and will not leave his kingdom without a fight. Eventually, Bahorel has to shout that Cosette is in trouble, and Marius is so worried and anxious to save her that he falls out of the tree; luckily, he doesn’t break anything. Then Bahorel carries him out of the park as Courfeyrac bids the squirrels goodnight. Meanwhile, Joly finds a small child that bears an almost frightening resemblance to him and decides to take the kid home. It takes Combeferre and Musichetta eleven minutes to explain why abducting a mini-me is one of those things that are ‘absolutely never okay’.

Enjolras won’t stop petting Grantaire, and when Eponine says something snarky to her best friend, Enjolras hisses at her and says “No, he’s my Grantaire, don’t be mean to him. I’ll overthrow you. I’ll do it! I’ll do it right now!” 

Feuilly starts singing an old sea chant, and everyone stops to listen, because it is a well-known fact that Feuilly is the best singer out of all of them. Bahorel plays the air-accordion to accompany, and Jehan and Eponine dance a jig together underneath a streetlight. The walk back to the apartment is almost an hour longer than the walk to the park, mostly because every few minutes, Cosette forgets how to move, and is struck by the all-encompassing terror that her feet have been glued to the ground (which they haven’t, by the way). But they somehow make it back to the apartment in one piece, laughing hysterically at every minor thing that happens to them, and efficiently waking up every living creature in the apartment building. Les Amis then proceed to eat two cartons of ice cream, twelve and a half rice cakes, a bag of gummy bears that Combeferre tried foolishly to keep hidden, and a loaf of bread.

They fall asleep in a giant pile in the middle of Enjolras and Grantaire’s living room, as ‘Good Morning Starshine’ plays in the background.


	4. On a Date

Eponine loves Combeferre. He's smart, and funny (when you get to know him), and one of the sweetest guys she's ever met. So she considers completely fucking up his study habits a way of showing her love, as well as a service to humanity because the guy _seriously_ needs to loosen up before he pulls something. At least, that's the excuse she's using as she climbs in through his window (which he never locks, whether it's carelessness or an invitation she hasn't quite figured out yet).

She checks his room first, stopping for half a second to hear muffled sounds of annoyance coming from Enjolras' bedroom (sounds like 'prejudiced dickheads', 'capitalist bastards' and, finally, 'drunken jerkface', who can only be Grantaire), but finds it empty. Frowning, she checks the kitchen, where the table is cluttered with news clippings, ABC pamphlets designed by Grantaire and Cosette, and photographs with politically/financially influential and corrupt people with things like 'racist sexist bigoted bag of dicks' and 'official biggest douche ever to exist' in not only red thick letters but Grantaire's neat handwriting, which Eponine smiles at, because this is obviously Enjolras' stuff, and she can't wait until he finds Grantaire's handiwork. As a last stop before she makes her way to the campus library, she glances into the living room quickly, and _bingo_. Bent over the table, scribbling quickly in a script far too legible for someone intending on becoming a doctor, is Combeferre. She slides around the back of the couch quietly, surveying the pile of notes completely covering the large wooden coffee table, then hops over the back of it and flops down beside Combeferre.

"Afternoon, gorgeous." She says, kissing him on the cheek quickly.

He sighs and finishes whatever notes he's taking at the moment as he says, "Hello, handsome."

"How's the overworking?" Eponine says, as he sighs, resigned, and leans back so she can lay out her legs across his lap.

"Stressful but satisfying."

She hums, and nods behind her to the table. "What's our fearless leader up to?"

"Not sure." He squints at her, frowns, and pulls his glasses off and begins to clean them. "Though I'm pretty sure I heard laughter coming from his room earlier, which means either he's not studying, or he's finally lost his mind."

"'m betting on the second." Eponine shakes her head, and takes the glasses from his hands and puts them on. He doesn't protest, because a, he's used to it at this point, and b, it would be pointless. "Speaking of which, you should've seen Grantaire when I left. He practically tore the place apart looking for a pair of pants. Apparently they're his only pair not covered in paint. I'm pretty sure he's never cared so much about pants before in his entire life." She frowns at the unfamiliar inability to distinguish shapes that doesn't usually occur when she's wearing Combeferre's glasses. "'Ferre-bear, did you get more blind?"

"Excuse me?" He says, smiling slightly.

Eponine takes off the offending lenses. "Pretty sure your vision didn't suck this much last time I tried these things on."

He frowns, and lifts the frames back to his eyes, squinting and blinking rapidly. "Well, that's interesting."

"Very." She says, rolling her eyes. "Unlike whatever the hell you're working on."

"Excuse you, peasant, this is-" Combeferre starts, but is cut off by the sudden and strangely loud appearance of Enjolras. He rushes into the room, half into a sentence.

"-my red sweater?" He says hurriedly, then glances at the couch. "Oh, hello Eponine. You're here again."

"As are you." She nods. "What a crazy, mixed-up world of happenstance we live in."

Combeferre chuckles and looks back to his friend. "What about your red sweater?"

Enjolras raises an eyebrow. "Have you _seen_ it. I've only asked four times-"

"It's in the pantry." Combeferre says simply, cutting off Enjolras' irritated words. "And Enjolras, are you by any chance wearing my glasses?"

"Of course not. I'm about to go out, I've got my contacts in." Says Enjolras, clearly wearing a pair of black-frame glasses. He looks down. " _Fuck_. As if I wasn't running short on time already, now I've got to go put in my contacts, find that damn sweater, all my pants are dirty, pretty sure my favorite shoes have rips in them-" Enjolras rambles, walking into and out of the kitchen, until he goes back into his room and closes the door and all they can hear is muffled ranting and the occasionally banging.

"Well that was weird." Eponine says, then looks back to Combeferre. "I mean, I assume it was weird, I'm not that familiar with Enjolrasisms."

He shakes his head slowly. "No, that was weird."

"Our room-mates are freaks." Eponine says, shaking her head slowly. "And why was his sweater in the pantry?"

Combeferre laughs softly. "Our room-mates are freaks."

"And so are you." Eponine moves her legs to the floor and stands up. "And you're taking a break. Resistance is futile, don't struggle-"

Combeferre laughs again, a little louder this time. "It's fine, I needed a break anyway. I was hoping you'd stop by." He says, smiling softly up at her.

Eponine immediately frowns and leans down to press a hand to his forehead. "Are you dying? Sick-crazy?"

"Sick-crazy?"

Eponine considers. "There's probably a better word for that."

"Delirious is always nice." Combeferre shrugs. "Sick-crazy works too. Unfortunately, I am neither, so if you're done with your Joly impersonation..."

"Right." Eponine smiles. "Come on, grab your coat, Watson, there's been a murder."

"Oh god, someone pissed off Jehan, didn't they?" He says, laughing, as Eponine pulls him roughly off the couch.

\------------------------------

A few hours later the two of them walk, arm-in-arm, down the street as Combeferre tells her the story of Icarus. This is somewhat a tradition of theirs, or maybe it hasn't been going on long enough to really be a tradition, so it's a habit. Combeferre has a great voice, like pouring warm caramel over melted dark chocolate while a cello plays slowly in the background and you sink slowly into a perfectly temperatured bath. If that makes any sense at all. Anyway, Eponine loves to hear him talk, especially when he likes what he's talking about, and (apparently since he was six) there's nothing Combeferre likes to talk about more than mythology. So sometimes she just listens as he tells her stories, of myths from all over the world but with a special emphasis on Greek, because their mythology was the first he ever learned about.

As he finishes, she smiles sadly, and thinks fondly of Grantaire, who had once compared himself to Icarus, and Enjolras to the sun. Sure, it was an overly dramatic drunken ramble, but there was truth in it. She's so caught up thinking about her best friend's situation that she doesn't register that Combeferre's been silent until he speaks up again. "Something on your mind?"

She laughs, kicking at a pebble on the sidewalk. "No more than usual."

He hums and doesn't press the matter further, which is one of those things she loves about him. "I thought the movie was good."

Eponine scoffs. "It was Drop Dead Gorgeous. In a theatre. There was no way it _couldn't_ be good."

"Well, as someone just seeing it for the first time, I was unfortunately unaware of that."

"Ugh," Eponine rolls her eyes and shakes her head in disapproval. "You are _so lucky_ you have me to educate you in the ways of classic movies."

Combeferre laughs, a low chuckle. "Yes, because a comedy about beauty pageants qualifies as a classic."

"Ooh!" Eponine spins a little and almost breaks their arm link. Which isn't all that hard to do, in fact, it's surprising they can link arms at all, because he's at least eight inches taller than her. "That reminds me, we're watching Carrie next." She grins, in a way that some might call evil or malignant. If the definition of 'some' were changed to mean 'everyone and their mother'. "And then we move on to the horror classics, because I know how you love them. I'm talking the Shining here, big boy."

He rolls his eyes and scoffs. "Terrible acting, awful fake blood, cheap attempts at terror-"

"You're completely and entirely full of shit." She laughs, poking him in the side. "Too scared to watch?"

"Bordering on paralysing terror." Combeferre says simply, and she laughs again.

"Good. Should be fun, then."

Combeferre groans, then apparently decides it time for a topic change. "Ep, where exactly are we _going_?"

"It's a surpirii-iise." She says in a sing-song voice, tugging on his arm slightly. He raises an eyebrow, because if there's one thing that annoys Combeferre more than pop music and people who say 'chai tea' (he's such a pretentious bastard, it's almost funny), it's being surprised or caught off-guard. She sighs, and decides she might as well drop him a couple of breadcrumbs so he doesn't implode. "Grantaire told me about it. Says it's got some of the best cheesecake ever made on Nonexistent-God's green earth, and it's not expensive, and really friendly waiters." He also said that was, for some reason, designed like some sort of Moroccan den, with low lighting and cushions instead of chairs, and off-handedly mentioned that it would be a pretty awesome place to take a date, but those details are pretty much irrelevant.

"Oh, we're going on Grantaire's authority. This should end well." Combeferre says, and Eponine scoffs.

"Obviously someone's never asked Grantaire for dining advice." She pokes him in the side again. "R knows the best places for _everything_. Coffee, dinner, cheap but delicious desserts; trust me. He's had quite a bit of his parent's money to blow over the years, and, contrary to popular belief, he doesn't spend it all on booze." She shrugs. "Don't think there's a food-selling establishment in the whole city he hasn't been to."

Combeferre nods, slowly. "I didn't know that."

"You didn't ask." She says with a smile, because it's not exactly novel, someone being caught off-guard by Grantaire. She's always been proud to say that her ridiculous almost-brother is constantly defying people's expectations. Eponine pulls on Combeferre's arm and leads him down a street to their right, then on their right, they come to the restaurant. It's just as pretty as Grantaire described it, well worth how fucking out of the way it is. The entire front of the building is made of windows, so they can clearly see the maroon fabric hanging lazily from the ceiling, the glowing lamps and decorative rugs, the people sitting in cushioned alcoves.

"And here we go!" Eponine says cheerfully, stepping towards the building, but stops when she realizes Combeferre isn't moving, just staring at the restaurant,looking like something heavy has just been dropped on his head. "Oh, come on. You can manage eating _once_ at a strange restaurant, I'm sure it's up to code."

He just stares, jaw-dropped, at the restaurant, and doesn't answer.

Eponine groans, pulling on his arm. "If you want, we can ask to see their health inspection certification thingie. You ridiculous-"

Combeferre shakes his head, and interrupts her with a slow but commanding, "Eponine."

"Mande?" She says, because she was brought up Chicana, and old habits die hard.

" _Look_." He says simply, and Eponine looks.

"Yes, look at that safe, clean, lovely resta-" And then she sees it. "...holy fuck."

In one of the charming little alcoves, almost hidden by the draping fabric, sitting comfortable on the cushiony things, is Enjolras. Enjolras, who thinks restaurants are a waste of time when he can make food perfectly well (which he can't, he's burnt so much toast in the past that Courfeyrac has put up a small post-it memorial over the toaster), and who maintains a rigorous diet of _whatever won't kill me and will keep me fueled enough to end world-wide oppression_ , is sitting happily and eating cheesecake. Or, more to the point, is being fed cheesecake, which brings us to the _holy fuck_ part of our show, in which Eponine and Combeferre unknowingly have crossed into an alternate universe in which Grantaire is feeding Enjolras cheesecake, and Enjolras is smiling about it.

"Please tell me you can see them, too." Combeferre says quietly, taking off his glasses without looking away from the restaurant and cleaning them with the edge of his shirt.

"If by 'them' you mean Enjolras and Grantaire on a date and looking actually happy with one another as Grantaire feeds Enjolras cake, then sure." Eponine says weakly. "I see them."

"Oh." Combeferre says slowly. "Well, good, then. Not hallucinating."

Eponine nods slowly, then something clicks. "Oh my god. The pantry sweater, the paintless pants-"

"They were getting ready for a date." Combeferre says quietly. "Well, I can't say I didn't see this coming."

Eponine shakes her head, in awe. "You know, I always figured that when they got their shit together, it'd be something really dramatic, like half-way through an argument R would just grab him by the collar and kiss him stupid." She laughs softly. "I mean, I even suggested it to him a couple of times."

Combeferre lets out a shaky breath. "So, um, maybe eating here would be-"

"The worst fucking idea on the _planet_?" Eponine says, laughing, and finally pulls her eyes away from the scene before them (in which Enjolras is smiling and brushing a strand of hair away from Grantaire's face, jesus _christ_ ) and looks at Combeferre. "Yeah, I somehow get the feeling we're really not supposed to be seeing this."

Combeferre's eyes narrow, and he turns to look at her. "Which raises the question, why didn't they tell us? I mean, not only are we their best- hell, _childhood_ \- friends, but we live with the bastards."

"Hey, yeah." Eponine turns, now offended, to her traitor of a best friend who has cruelly deprived her of the celebratory dance party she had been planning for when this day finally came. "Look at them! That's not first-date awkwardness, that's _been-dating-and-fucking-for-weeks_ romanticness! They're practically _glowing_."

"Might be the candles, actually."

"Not the point."

Combeferre shrugs, and turns to look at her again. "So they don't want us to know. They have their reasons, we should respect that."

"Well _fuck_ that shit." Says Eponine, making an affronted face. "Stupid curly haired traitor, I hope he accidentally stabs Enjolras in the throat with that fork."

Combeferre laughs, loud and almost barking, and shakes his head. "C'mon, we should go."

"Oh, I'm going to _kill_ him," Eponine grumbles, but accepts Combeferre's offered arm and lets him lead her away (read: drag her away, and at one point physically restrain her from running back and enacting her rather inspired plan of taking fifty photos of them and posting them all on Facebook).

 

\------------------------------

They eventually decide (after a round of vigorous brain-bleaching) to simply go to a nice coffe shop and have some brownies or something.

Eponine sits, drinking some Lavender tea monstrosity, and watches as Combeferre hesitantly bites into an eclair.

"And the verdict is?"

Combeferre shrugs. "It's fine, if you're into that sort of thing."

"And you're not." She says, sighing at the abomination that is Combeferre.

"I don't like sweets." He says, pushing the plate back to her.

"Bullshit. Everyone likes sweets."

"Everyone but me, I suppose."

" _Everyone but me, I suppose_." Eponine says, in her most childish and mocking voice.

Combeferre raises an eyebrow. "You _are_ secretly a seven year-old, aren't you."

"Shut up," Eponine says, leaning across the table to shove his shoulder. "You're the freak who doesn't like sweets."

"Not all sweets, just- I dunno, the _extra_ sweets." Combeferre rolls his eyes. "I got seven cavities at a time when I was nine, was in the Dentist's office for _hours_. Haven't been able to eat anything too sweet since."

Eponine makes a face as she hands him the plate again, because she's going to make him eat the eclair and like it. "Okay, that's the worst thing I've ever heard. Dentist are like Satan but without the actual proclamation of evilness."

"Tell me about it." Combeferre says, slowly lifting the eclair and taking a cautious bite. "You know, Courfeyrac _loves_ going to the dentist."

Eponine laughs, because now Combeferre has crumbs stuck to his upper lip and doesn't seem to notice. "You're kidding."

"Not at all. He thinks it's great. Always has, ever since we were little."

Eponine says, "Wow," absently, because Combeferre looks really funny, all crumby. (she really is a child, isn't she?)

Combeferre's eyes narrow. "Why are you smiling so much?"

Eponine laughs softly. "You've got crumbs on your face."

"Where?" He says, brushing the wrong side of his mouth, then the spaces directly above and below the crumbs. Eponine scoffs, and leans across the table again.

"Come here, you idiot." She tuts, and reaches her thumb up to brush away the crumbs, before she realizes the sheer amount of romantic comedy moments she's embodying at that moment. "Oh, er-" She stutters, realizing how very, _very_ close Combeferre's mouth is to her own, and sits back in her chair. 'Got it."

Combeferre nods, and picks up his tea. "Thanks."

Eponine is a very stupid person.

\------------------------------

Because Eponine is broke and Combeferre is environmentally conscious, they walk home. Because they're not sure which apartment Enjolras and Grantaire may already be in, it takes them a while to decide which to walk to. Because Eponine is street-smart and Combeferre looks like easy pickings, they walk to Combeferre's, stopping in front of the door to the apartment to press their ears to the wood.

"Hear anything?" Combeferre whispers, and Eponine grins.

"You mean like sexy groaning, the sound of bedsprings, or the all-too-recognizable sounds of wall-sex?" Eponine pulls away from the door. "Nah, I think you're good."

Combeferre grimaces. "I- mental images- never-" Eponine smiles at him brightly, and he sighs. "I hate you."

"'Course you do." Says Eponine with a smile, as Combeferre pulls out his keys. "Well, I'll leave you to it then, gotta, um, get back before it gets too late and Grantaire files a missing person's report." She thinks. "If he even notices I'm _gone_ , that is, out all night on secret dates, no regard for whether or not-"

"Is this a date?" Combeferre says suddenly, interrupting Eponine, who freezes to look at him with wide eyes. "I mean, was it. Was this a date?"

Eponine stutters, and suddenly is faced with the all encompasing desire to _run, run fast, run far, RUN AWAY_. "Uh- I didn't think so." She manages to say, despite the internal crisis occurring in her brain.

"Oh." Combeferre says simply, face blank. "It felt like one. Nevermind then." He moves to place the key in the lock, and Eponine grabs his arm.

"I just-" She says, before taking a deep breath. "I wouldn't mind. If it were."

Combeferre smiles at her, soft and small. "Oh. Good."

"Yeah." Eponine smiles at him, practically beams. "Good."

Combeferre turns away, and unlocks the door, opening it slowly to check for their friends. Finding the apartment empty, he turns back to Eponine. "So if this is a date, and you've walked me to my door, shouldn't you kiss me goodnight?"

(She does.

For a very long period of time.

Then they go inside, and Combeferre makes them both grilled cheese because half an eclair is not an acceptable meal, and they sit down and watch the first part of The Simpson's Movie on TV, but they miss the last twenty minutes or so because of complications (complications that may or may not involve lots of kissing, we'll never know)

And as first dates go, it turns out to be one of the best Eponine's ever had.)


	5. Kissing

Feuilly sighs, pushes himself off his bed with a groan, and makes his way down the hall. He stops in front of the door to Bahorel’s room, thumping his open palm against it slowly.

"What’s the password?" Bahorel’s voice calls from inside.

"Open the goddamn door before I rip out your fingernails and shove them up your ass."

There are a few seconds of silence. “Yeah, good enough.” Feuilly hears shuffling, then the door unlocks and reveals a shirtless, scowling Bahorel.

"This better be good, ginge." He says, stepping back from the doorway. "I’ve got homework so far up the ass I can taste highlighter."

Feuilly, rather than responding, walks to Bahorel’s stupidly expensive (and thus, comfortable) bed and throws himself onto it, face first.

"Oh shit." Bahorel says, and Feuilly hears his approaching footsteps. "You get another abuse case?"

"Don’t fucking jinx me." Feuilly grumbles, then rolls over to stare at Bahorel’s ceiling. "I’m single. A-fucking- _gain_.”

"Shit." Bahorel sits down on the bed next to him. "Mary dumped you?"

"First of all," Feuilly says, examining the various craters in the ceiling’s surface. "Her name is Maggie. Second, I dumped  _her_. She was cheating on me with her yoga instructor.”

"Some people just have no flair for originality. Yoga instructor, honestly. Where does he work? What’s his name?" Bahorel asks, and Feuilly hears him crack his knuckles. "Can I beat his ass?"

Feuilly chuckles. “ _Her_  name is Isabelle Levinson.”

"Okay, points for gender creativity." Bahorel shrugs. "So you want me to get Eponine to beat her ass?"

"Pretty sure you’re being sexist."

Bahorel laughs. “Can’t hit a girl, dude. I’m a gentleman.”

"You’re a sexist dumbfuck."

"Is there a difference?" Bahorel says, and Feuilly laughs and sits up.

He runs his hand through the back of his hair, exhausted. “So let’s tally it up, shall we? Maggie- cheating on me with her yoga instructor. Then, a month before her, Kia. She dumped me because, and I quote, ‘if you and Bahorel are just friends, then I’m the Queen of England’.”

Bahorel laughs, then shrugs and says, “Her Majesty looked good for her age.” Feuilly really isn’t surprised at Bahorel’s easy dismissal of the accusation; it’s not like they haven’t gotten it before. And you can’t blame people, most of their friends are gay as the Fourth of July, and they’ve been room-mates for going on six years now. It’s not a huge leap, really.

"And two weeks before her was Arthur, who wouldn’t speak to me after  _you_ -” He turns to glare at Bahorel. “Broke two of his ribs.”

"Okay, I did not know you two were gayly gay for each other." Bahorel huffs. "And he was messing with R, and thought he could take  _me_. He was an asshole.”

Feuilly groans. “I try playing for the other team once, once, because almost all of my friends are gay as Elton John at a Pride Parade, and seem really happy. I think, ‘hey. I could like cock. Muscles are hot, what’s the worst that could happen?’.” He shoves Bahorel in the chest with one hand. “My best friend could beat the shit out of him halfway through our date, that’s what could fucking happen.”

"Again. Sorry."

"Shove it up your ass." Feuilly huffs, rubbing the palms of his hands over his face. "I’ve gone through eight relationships in the past six months.  _Eight_.” 

"Weak." Bahorel grins, shoving him back. "I’ve had at least twice that."

"Don’t fucking interrupt me." Feuilly parts his hands and glares at him through the space. "And in the meantime, Marius-  _Marius_  has been happily married for years, Eponine married Combeferre, Enjolras and Grantaire are fucking engaged- just let that sink in. Enjolras is going to get  _married_. To  _Grantaire_. Courf and Jehan are engaged, ‘chetta, Joly and Bossuet are the perfect happy family, and me? Nothing. I mean, for fuck’s sake, I’ve never even been in a relationship for more than sixteen months.”

"Oh, yeah, I forgot about Lennie." Bahorel smiles. "I liked her."

"Everyone did." She and Eponine were drinking buddies, she was a medical student just like Joly and Combeferre, and she and Jehan had multiple debates about poetry that went on for  _hours_. Hell, she and Enjolras planned a rally together once, and it was one of the most successful they’ve ever had. He’s never asked, but he’s pretty sure at least half of his friends are still in contact with Lennie.

"She was good for you, dude. You guys should’ve worked things out."

Feuilly laughs, and grumbles, “You are  _welcome_  to go to Spain and tell her that. Until then, I’ll be completely fucked in terms of relationships.”

Bahorel frowns. “So? If you want a fairytale love story, go fucking find one, don’t bitch to me about it.”

"I’ve  _tried_ , you enormous dick basket.” Feuilly huffs. He really has; he’s not sure what the hell it is, but he can’t seem to make any relationships go the distance. While all of his friends (except Bahorel, for obvious reasons) are getting their lives together and falling face-first in love, he’s still getting shot down by girls in coffeeshops and living with his asshole best friend. “Seriously, what the  _hell_? I mean, I love the prick, but Grantaire, the do-nothing, drunk, argumentative almost-stalker gets the guy of his dreams. I work hard, I’m not ugly, I can dress myself, what the-“

Bahorel rolls his eyes and leans in to kiss Feuilly, softer than he would have expected if he had ever considered what it would be like to kiss Bahorel. The kiss is over in a matter of seconds, and Feuilly just stares, dumbstruck, at Bahorel as his best friend pulls away and shrugs at him.

Bahorel raises an eyebrow, expression unreadable. Feuilly thinks for a second, then says, “If you’ve been harbouring gay feelings for me all this time, I swear to god I will kick your teeth in.”

Bahorel laughs, and slaps him lightly on the cheek. “Don’t flatter yourself.”

His eyes narrow threateningly. “I’m serious. If there has been any pining, jacking off to thoughts of me, or checking me out after I shower, I will beat the shit out of you and move out tomorrow.” He doesn’t need that shit complicating his life, and besides, it’s creepy as fuck.

Bahorel holds up his hands in surrender. “Man, I was just trying to see if we were actually gay for each other. Since everyone seems to assume as much, I thought it was worth a shot.”

Feuilly eyes him sceptically. “Are you even  _into_  guys?”

"Not really." Bahorel shrugs. "I mean, I wouldn’t kick Chris Pine out of my bed, but I’m pretty exclusively into chicks here."

"Then why would you think-"

"If there were one guy I’d be gay for, it’d be you." Bahorel says simply, cutting him off with a shrug.

Feuilly leans a little farther away and examines his friend, eyebrow raised. There’s no tell-tale tent in his pants, no eager expression in his eyes, his pupils aren’t dilated. “I can’t tell if you’re secretly in love with me or not.”

Bahorel rolls his eyes again and scoffs. “Seriously, dude. I promise, I’m really not the type to harbour secret feelings, okay? Trust me on this, you have not been guest starring in any night-time fantasies.” He pauses. ” Okay, except for that one where I was Han-Solo and you were Luke, and Scarlett Johansson was Leia. But there was no threesome action, you just bitched at me a lot and it ended with a ScarJo strip tease. That’s it.”

Feuilly shudders. “‘rel. We have talked about this. It’s rule number five. No-“

"Talking about sexy dreams ever. Yeah, I know." Bahorel says, looking like he’s being nagged by his mom for not cleaning his room. "I’m just trying to say that I’m not gay for you; I’m trying to figure out if maybe I’m gay for you."

There’s a beat, before Feuilly raises an eyebrow. “They teach you that kind of eloquence in Law School?”

"Fuck yeah they do." Bahorel grins, and Feuilly sighs.

"You know I hate you for this, right?" He says, moving closer to Bahorel. 

Bahorel shrugs. “Is there any time when you  _don’t_  hate me?”

"When you make waffles." Feuilly says simply, then pulls Bahorel in and kisses him.

It’s pretty standard as kisses go. Bahorel is tonguey, which is fine, and he doesn’t seem to mind that Feuilly is a biter. After a couple of minutes they pull apart, and Feuilly raises an eyebrow.

"Anything? Sparks, fireworks, other cheesy shit?"

"Nah, sorry." Bahorel says with a shrug. "You?"

"Nothin’." Feuilly frowns. "I mean, you’re good, lots of tongue without being slobbery."

Bahorel grins. “Thanks. I worked on that. And I like the little bite-lick thing you did there at the end, where’d you learn that?”

Feuilly shrugs. “Cosette.”

"You’re kidding."

"Let’s just say Marius is a very lucky man and leave it at that."

Bahorel shakes his head in awe, then purses his lips in thought. “We could give it another go?”

"For science?" Feuilly says with a grin.

He laughs. “Science, and the need for a bit of stress release. Studying law sucks ass dude, you don’t even  _know_.”

"Fine, but for the purposes of science-" Feuilly, in one swift movement, moves so he’s straddling Bahorel.

"Ooh, lap-dance time?" Bahorel laughs, raising an eyebrow at Feuilly. "Shit, forgot my singles."

"God, do you  _ever_  shut up?”

"Nope." Bahorel gives him a shit-eating grin, and kisses him again.

Feuilly soon realizes that kissing Bahorel is  _exactly_  like fighting Bahorel. They’re constantly trying to out-do each other, fighting for dominance, playing at familiar weaknesses, and testing each other’s abilities. Fighting Bahorel is not angry, not vicious, it’s just something to pass the time inbetween other, higher-stakes matches. In the same way, kissing Bahorel is not romantic, and it’s barely sexy, it’s just something to do. It’s good kissing, good grinding and biting and aggressive rutting, but it’s not like some light just flipped on in Feuilly’s brain and now he’s in love with, or even attracted to, Bahorel.

He’s still just his stupid, violent, annoying best friend and partner in crime.  He supposes Bahorel is objectively attractive, but it’s not like he’ll be constantly checking him out now. He’s still more buff than Feuilly could ever hope to be and more idiotic than Feuilly’s ever been. It’s just that now they’ve kissed as well. Which, if they were people that actually gave a shit about things like this, might make things awkward, especially since they live together.

"Man, this is fucked up." Feuilly says finally, pulling away from Bahorel at last. He’s on top of his friend now, and Bahorel’s laying with his back to the bed.

Bahorel rolls his eyes. “So’s your Mom, get off me.”

"Not what your Dad said last night." Feuilly says, laughing, as he climbs off of Bahorel.

Bahorel laughs, a huge barking laugh, then sits up. “I know Courfeyrac is trying to make ‘yo’ daddy’ jokes as common as ‘yo’ mamma’, but my old man would fucking eat you alive.”

Feuilly laughs and shoves his friend away. “Fuck off.” He turns to Bahorel. “Still nothing?”

Bahorel shrugs. “Sorry, dude. Good but not that good.”

"Yeah, me neither."

Bahorel shrugs. “Whadya gonna do?”

Feuilly sighs, and is silent for a minute, thinking. “I’m gonna kick your ass at Mario Kart, that’s fucking what.”

Bahorel shakes his head fervently.”Dude, I have so many cases to read it almost legally qualifies as inhumane.”

"Scared?" Feuilly says, and Bahorel groans out a ‘you fucker’ as he runs his hands through his hair.

"Fine!" He cries, throwing his arms out in exasperation. "Fine, you giant inflatable rainbow dildo,  _fine_.”

Feuilly just grins and runs out of the room, down the hall and into the living room, and doesn’t even mind when Bahorel tackles him to the ground and wrestles his chosen controller out of his hands.


	6. Wearing Each Other’s Clothes

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so i wrote this in a car because i'm travelling at the moment  
> also no headcanons for a couple of days because as i said before, travelling  
> guys i dont even know this is such a ridiculous chapter someone help

 

"Courf, you’re in charge of snacks next time." Cosette says, picking up her giant plate. "As much as I love baking for you ingrates, I’m visiting my father next week and won’t have time."

"Make R do it."

Grantaire lifts his head from where he’s drawing a rather adorable spider woman. “Don’t listen to Courfeyrac.”

Courfeyrac glares at him. “I can’t snackify Les Amis until week after next.”

"Why not?" Joly says, at the same time highlighting his medical notes. 

"Religious reasons." Courfeyrac says simply, and Combeferre groans.

"Oh god, is it June thirteenth already?"

"What’s so special about Jumph-" Grantaire says, cut off mid-sentence by Enjolras clamping his hand over his boyfriends mouth. Grantaire mumbles indignantly and tries to pry the hand off his face, but to no avail.

“ _Don’t_  ask.” Enjolras near-growls.

Eponine laughs, and  ignores how furiously Combeferre is shaking his head as she says, “What’s so special about June thirteenth?”

"Oh here we go." Enjolras groans, removing his hand from Grantaire’s mouth. "R, did you  _lick_  my hand?”

Grantaire rolls his eyes. “Yeah, like that’s the first part of you I’ve ever licked, ooh, how exciting-“

” _June thirteenth_ -” Courfeyrac bellows, and the assembled Amis quiet almost instantly. “Is opposite day.”

"That’s not an official-" Marius starts, before Courfeyrac throws his pencil at him.

"Silence, you ludicrous fool." Courfeyrac says, and Jehan rolls his eyes fondly. "Opposite day is the most important holiday of all the holidays. It is about seeing ourselves for what we truly are, and being not that for 24 hours."

Musichetta scoffs as she makes a house out of toothpicks (have you guessed yet that this meeting was derailed a  _long_  time ago?). “That doesn’t stop you from bringing snacks.”

"Yes it does," Courfeyrac says with a pout. "Normal Courfeyrac would bring snacks, the antiCourf only brings misery."

Joly almost chokes on his drink, then, coughing, says, “The  _antiCourf_?”

"What part of ‘don’t ask’ is so hard for you people to grasp?" Enjolras groans, flopping down in the seat next to Grantaire.

"Oh, Enjy, you know you love it." Courfeyrac smiles fondly at his best friend. "Now, it’s funny we’re on the subect of Opposite Day, because since this our very first opposite day in which none of you losers are out of city or state doing various losery things, I have opposite day plans for all of you."

Enjolras lets out a little whimper and lets his head fall forward onto the table. Grantaire pats his head sympathetically while Courfeyrac describes his plan. After 83 aggressive ‘no’s from Enjolras, one attempt to assassinate Courfeyrac (by a certain angry ginger who will not be named), and a whole lot of evil giggling from Jehan, the plan is set, and everyone has agreed to comply (even if some certain un-named blonde revolutionaries didn’t so much agree as say ‘i fucking hate you _all_ ’ before stomping out of the cafe, which they took for compliance).

————————————-

“The entire way our society functions is flawed, and it starts with the way we treat the next generation. The way children are brought up in this world- so many parents would be more comfortable with their child watching  a man be shot to death, hanged, be torn apart and bleeding, brutally murdered, than with them watching two men kiss. We give children the impression that violence is more acceptable than love, or sex. We teach little girls that a boy being mean to her means that he likes her, rather than teaching her to be mean right back, because she doesn’t deserve his abuse. You don’t think this contributes to rape culture or domestic violence? Fixing this broken society doesn’t all occur in protests and legislation; so much of the inherent flaws of society are brought about by people’s miseducation as children that results in internalized prejudice and skewed views of the way the world is run.”

There’s a scoff from the back of the room. “Yes, thank you for your advice on how we should raise our nonexistent children.”

Enjolras rolls his eyes at Grantaire, who raises an eyebrow. “ _Really_? Out of every flaw to pick at,  you go with  _we don’t actually have children_? Weak.”

Eponine shakes her head and adjust her glasses quietly. “Grantaire, you have the social skills of a drunk velociraptor.”

Grantaire grins, and adjusts his red vest as he says, “Excellent council, my dear Eponine. Your wisdom is boundless.” He pats Eponine proudly on the head.

Enjolras rolls his eyes, and begins stroking Marius’ head fondly. “Aren’t they-“

Marius laughs. “I know, so terrible.” He snuggles closer into Enjolras and almost flashes Musichetta as his lavender summer dress begins to ride up. “Shit-” He pulls down the soft material, blushing, and continues French braiding Courfeyrac’s hair.

Courfeyrac hums softly, as he writes lines of poetry that curl around Enjolras’ wrist. “Time’s sea hath been five years at its slow ebb…” He murmurs quietly, beginning to hum a little Irish folksong.

Jehan grins eagerly, and nudges Eponine in the arm. She raises an eyebrow at him as he says, “Ever hear the one about the man from Nantucket?” Eponine rolls her eyes fondly and goes back to writing every digit of pi on her napkin.

Grantaire scoffs and rolls his eyes. “This is an  _incredible_  waste of time; we have to end the oppression of he masses, we don’t have time for these shenanigans!”

"All you do is work, we don’t even  _have_  anything planned at least three weeks.” Enjolras says with a smirk, adjusting his dark blue beanie so it pushes his curls down over his eyes, then leans back in his chair and just watches Grantaire. His eyes, the perfect line of his jaw,  _everything_.

Grantaire huffs. “I find your complete lack of regard for anything I believe in simultaneously frustrating and arousing.”

Enjolras grins, dragging his teeth up his bottom lip. “Bite me, baby.”

"Fuckers." Feuilly says, shaking his head as he absently bandages his knuckles.

There’s a loud clatter at the door, and Cosette rushes in, wearing a giant sombrero, a pair of boxers, and holding a Maraca in each hand. “I’m so-“She trips over air. “Whoops, so sorry guys, I was coming over from the bakery across the street and ended up in Mexico; I don’t know what happened, my phone died and I lost all my money and was arrested for petty larsony-“

Joly laughs, and sticks his tongue out at Enjolras. “And you said I was the unluckiest guy you’d ever met.”

"Unluckiest  _bastard_ , I believe, were my exact words.” Enjolras smirks.

Cosette throws herself down in the chair next to Marius.

"Hi, baby." Marius says, leaning away from Enjolras to press kisses to Cosette’s forehead.

Cosette smiles sheepishly, then points at the braided crown in Marius’ hair. “Your hair- it looks like a Monarch butterfly wing.”

Marius smiles. “It does that sometimes.”

"Marius is just cooler than all of you, might as well accept it and move on." Enjolras says, slouching lower into his chair, before Combeferre punches him in the arm. "Except for Combeferre, who is cooler than anyone on the planet and also very dangerous and did I mention beautiful? Because he’s also beautiful."

"Fuck yes I am." Combeferre adjusts his over-sized black sweater so it falls down to one side and reveals his bare shoulder, then winks at Eponine, who blushes, looks away, and begins cleaning her glasses.

"Witty comment about how I’m smarter than you and better and did I mention poor? Also I taught myself to read and I love Poland." Bahorel mutters, looking completely and entirely fed up with all of them.

Grantaire fans himself from excitement and begins bowing to Bahorel, as Enjolras pouts and Marius begins stroking his hair sympathetically.

Feuilly (wearing a t-shirt that says SHUN THE NON-BELIEVER in black bold letters) punches Bahorel in the arm and glares at him. “Wow, I’m such a lazy ass-hole, how do you put up with me? Also I’m butt-ugly and am shit at lawyering, which I’m stupid enough to think is a real word.”

"Pendejos." Bossuet mutters, shaking his head as he plays another game of Angry Birds.

Jehan sighs fondly, then shakes his head. “I’m telling you guys, we should all get together one night, have some popcorn, some snacks, and then a giant orgy after.”

"See what I’ve fallen in love with?" Courfeyrac says, staring dreamily into Jehan’s beautiful brown eyes. He pulls at the hem of his oversized, lumpy sweater decorated with purple unicorns so it covers the zipper of his bright green skinny jeans, before adjusting the pile of flower crowns and leis in his hair.

"You’re all giving me a  _headache_.” Grantaire whines, waving a miniature French flag.

Musichetta beams at him as she hums ‘zip-a-dee-doo-da’. “A head-ache? How wonderful. It’s probably a tumor. Or malaria. Or herpes.”

"That doesn't even make sense, amor." Bossuet pats her hand with a smile, and he and Joly press soft kisses to her cheeks.

"Oh, que lindos." Cosette says, smiling, then blushes.

"I don’t have time for your lonely soul, Cosette." Grantaire glares at Cosette, who raises her arms in surrender.

"Sorry, sorry, let’s talk for a long time about how great Napoleon is."

Grantaire throws the French flag at her, and Eponine stands up and pets his head gently as he hisses at Cosette like an angry cat.

Combeferre rolls his eyes and begins absently flicking his pocket knife open and closed as Jehan begins singing ‘As Long as You Love Me’. He then turns to Jehan and says simply, “One more verse and i will rip out your spinal cord and beat you to death with it.”

"Gosh." Eponine says, resting her head on her cheek with a grin. "Isn't she an adorable psychopath?"

"I don’t understand the meaning of this ‘she’ you’re referring to." Grantaire says, frowning. "Can I overthrow it? Or is it being oppressed. Does it need my help?" Grantaire reaches forward to grab the collar of Eponine’s button-up shirt. " _Let me save things_.”

"You’re so beautiful when you’re angry." Enjolras sighs wistfully, and Combeferre rolls his eyes.

Eponine makes a little ‘a-ha!’ noise and everyone turns to look at her. “Sorry, I just hacked into the government’s mainframe. It’s exciting stuff.”

Musichetta, grinning, looks at all her favourite people. At Jehan, in his plaid shirt and bowtie, humming One Direction’s ‘Best Song Ever’, then at Eponine in her scrubs, randomly pressing every key on her laptop. She glances at Grantaire, who’s staring at Enjolras with a mixture of loathing and attraction, and Enjolras, who’s grinning at Grantaire as he has a thumb war with Marius. At Cosette, hair in a perfect fifties greaser quiff, who’s staring at Marius like she can’t believe such perfection exists, then at Feuilly and Bahorel, who are simply glaring at each other. She looks finally to Joly, who’s involved in a rigorous game of rock-paper-scissors with Combeferre (and keeps losing), and Bossuet, who’s silently struggling with level 3 of Angry Birds (bless him).

Musichetta takes a deep breath and glances at her gathered friends. “Guys, I’m pregnant.”

Cosette giggles, and Enjolras raises an eyebrow. “Um, pretty sure you can’t be pregnant. No offence.”

"And I thought you said it was smallpox?" Eponine grins.

"No, um. Actually." Musichetta looks at them. "I, Musichetta, not the Joly version. I’m pregnant."

Joly laughs, looking away from Combeferre. “Yeah, guys, she is. We found out day before yesterday.” He shakes his head fondly at Musichetta, who shrugs at him.

"Don’t know why she chose now of all times to say so, but-" Bossuet shrugs and presses a kiss to Musichetta’s forehead.

The entire group stares at them, most of their jaws dropped in shock and not-quite-belief.

"You’re  _kidding_.” Grantaire says finally, a huge grin on his face.

"Nope." Joly laughs, as he and Bossuet wrap their arms around Musichetta. "We’re gonna be a family. Well, more of one, anyway."

Bossuet grins. “One more revolutionary for the cause, Enjolras.”

Enjolras smiles at him with what looks like tears in his eyes, as Jehan lets out a little squeal of excitement, and Cosette near-shrieks, “Oh my  _god_  you guys!”

As the group gets out of their chairs to near-tackle the expecting family with a group hug, wishing fervent, excited congratulations, Bahorel raises an eyebrow. “Who’s the father?”

Feuilly doesn't respond, just smacks him over the head with his book.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so yeah les amis suck at opposite day because they aren't really being the opposite of themselves but Courfeyrac is just happy because 'everYONE'S CELEBRATING MY FAVORITE HOLIDAY WITH ME AND DID YOU SEE DAINTY LITTLE MARIUS IN A DRESS??!!'
> 
> also I would just like everyone to take a moment and imagine Enjolras, not breaking eye-contact, just growling in a low, rough voice "bite me, baby" and dragging his teeth up his lip
> 
> that is all


	7. Cosplaying

"Let's  _go_  guys, Jesus, how long does it take to get  _dressed_ -" Bahorel growls, tying black cloth over his eyes, then adjusting it so the eye-holes match up.

A muffled, annoyed voice calls from the bathroom, "We're coming, shut up!" and Grantaire just laughs at Bahorel's pissed-off expression.

Cosette comes rushing through the door, pulling along a bumbling Marius, whose hair, surprisingly enough, is not in his ridiculous quiff he always wears, but is fluffed upwards expertly. "Sorry, sorry, sorry, we got caught up-"

"I bet you did." Grantaire chuckles, adjusting his black fedora, then turns to hug his friend and raises an appreciative eyebrow at her. "I thought this month's color was teal."

Cosette laughs, hugging him quickly. "It was, but then this just worked with the costume and I thought, what the hell?" She pushes a stray strand of her now-lilac hair behind her ear. "What is that shit on your head?"

"It was cool in the movie."

Cosette rolls her eyes and sighs, "Bossuet?"

"Helping Enjolras; the boy's a mess." Grantaire says with a smirk, gesturing to the bathroom. "Sunglasses?"

Cosette frowns. "Haven't seen 'em, sorry. Can you?" She gestures to her hair, and Grantaire nods and gestures for her to sit. Cosette hands him the picture she printed out minutes before, then glances around as Marius goes in to check on Enjolras. Behind her, Courfeyrac is helping Combeferre with his tie, and Cosette smiles at Combeferre's perfectly-styled fifties quiff, and the fact that for the first time in a very long time, it looks like Courfeyrac has actually combed his hair.

"You actually did it." She says, slightly in awe, then holds out her fist.

Combeferre accepts the fist-bump with a grin, and Cosette turns back to Grantaire, who's holding his comb patiently. "Okay, scale of one to Seeing Red, how terrible is tonight going to be?"

Grantaire laughs as he starts teasing her hair. "Awesome. Joly's hilarious, and super responsible. It'll be a breeze."

Cosette smacks at his hand. "I meant for  _me_."

"Oh." Grantaire starts spraying her light purple hair with (frankly really gross smelling) hairspray. "Yeah, you're fucked."

"Me and Marius both." She grumbles, starting on her mascara as Grantaire begins pinning up strands of hair. "I can't decide what's worse, being stuck with small-child enemy #1, or the man who breaks things by breathing on them."

"Enjolras isn't that-"

"Last Christmas."

Grantaire laughs, and concedes. "Okay, fine. But hey, chance is chance."

Cosette huffs. Yes, the pairings were random. Yes, they drew names for partners out of a glass bowl to add a little variety to life. And yes, they did agree that there would be no switching once partners were decided. But  _Bossuet_?  _Really_? As if she wouldn't have enough on her mind that night, she also had to constantly worry about Bossuet tripping over a child. Or mixing up candy bags. Or- god forbid-  _losing_  a kid.

As if on cue, Bossuet rushes into the room, crying, "Has anyone seen my wig? Guys, I think I lost my wig,  _shitshitshitshitshit_ -" and checking in every cabinet and under every item in Jehan and Courfeyrac's apartment.

"Um, Boss'?" Grantaire says, barely resisting the urge to laugh. "You're wearing it."

"Wha-" Bossuet presses a hand to his head and feels the bright green wig sitting on top of it. "Oh. Right. Obviously. I knew that."

Cosette rolls her eyes at Grantaire, who smirks at her. This is gonna be a  _long_  night.

\----------------------------------------

"Les Amis, reporting for duty!" Cosette chirps, arm linked with a smiling Bossuet.

The little woman at the table gives them a slightly forced smile. "Happy Halloween, thank you so much for coming." She's wearing a generic witches hat and a nametag that says "Madge', which is so unfortunate Grantaire feels a little bad for her.

Madge glances at them all in turn, most likely to make sure their costumes are appropriate for children. Cosette and Bossuet are wearing little crowns suspended over their heads and holding little sparkly wands, and she smiles at the couple kindly. Next to them is Jehan, in dark green over-alls over a bright, flower covered shirt, and Musichetta, in a dark red button-up shirt, brown pants, a long, brown coat, and her hear tied up neatly in a bun. In a lab coat almost as Musichetta's, Courfeyrac stands, smirking at the woman, and next to him is Bahorel in all black with a black mask. Then Marius, wearing square glasses and a striped suit, and Combeferre, in his button-down shirt and holding a vintage-looking microphone. Grantaire and Joly are standing shoulder-to-shoulder in matching outfits composed of button downs, sunglasses (which will prove problematic when it becomes actually dark outside), and fedoras. Next to them is Eponine, dark hair tumbling in loose curls around her face, dressed in a dark red salsa dress and carrying a paper fan. And his favorite of all, (surprisingly enough) Enjolras, in a borrowed pink dress, who went with the costume option that didn't require him to buy any new clothing.

Madge's eyes stop at Grantaire and Joly, then narrow. "Are you two supposed to be gangsters? Because we don't like to encourage that kind of lifestyle here."

"Oh, no-" Grantaire says, as Joly does a little dance next to him. "We're Jake and Elwood." Madge looks no less suspicious. "Um, the Blues Brothers?" Still nothing. "Jeez, lady, this is -supposed to be your generation-"

"We're carrying no weapons, fake or otherwise." Joly says helpfully, elbowing Grantaire in the side.

Madge nods, but doesn't stop eyeing them cautiously. "Fine, you signed up as six different groups, yes? And we've had your group on file for years now..." Enjolras nods. "Alright, the names of the kids are on there lists-" She hands them six different sheets of paper. "And the children are right through there." She says, pointing to a door at the end of the hall.

They thank them, and Grantaire wishes Cosette 'good luck' with his eyes, then the separate groups grab their lists and make their way down the hall. Walking next to his boyfriend he gives Enjolras a quick hand-squeeze, and almost laughs when he sees the half-panicked expression on Enjolras' face as he hears the sound of excited children coming from the community center's gym.

 

\----------------------------------------

 

This is the fourth year they've signed up to take the kids from the local community center out trick or treating, and while Enjolras acknowledges that it's a nice way of helping out the community and what not, he also hates it with a passion.

It's not so much that he hates Halloween (though he does, thanks to a particularly bad memory of Halloween when he was thirteen that he's been adamantly suppressing since it occurred) or even that he hates having to dress up (which he does, though he begrudgingly will admit that Cosette's dress is one of the more comfortable things he's ever worn), it's all to do with the children.

Contrary to popular belief, Enjolras does not  _hate_  children. He just doesn't understand them, and can never seem to connect with them. Grantaire, ever his opposite, will be with a child for a minute and a half and already have become best friends with the thing, finding common interests and amusing it with entertaining anecdotes. Enjolras, on the other hand, has still yet to bond with his baby sister, who was born shortly after he turned fifteen. They have sort of a reluctant mutual respect for each other, and that's it (obviously, she and Grantaire are best friends and talk about him behind his back, because his boyfriend is a deplorable traitor). 

He's walking down a still-lit residential street when a little monster dressed as a cowboy approaches him. The kid could be anywhere from seven to twelve years old; Enjolras has never been able to tell. "Where're we going first, miss?"

Enjolras sighs. "We'll start with that blue house over there," He gestures with one finger. "And make our way down."

The little kid's eye widen. "Why do you sound like a boy?"

"That's Enjolras." Marius smiles, adjusting the little girl in a cow costume as he carries her on his back, stubby little children's hands clasped around his neck. "He is a boy."

"Then why's he in a dress?" Says the girl in a bumblebee outfit, with all the tact of a six year-old. Enjolras, in lieu of response, does a mental tally of the children, coming up with the same amount they left with; eleven. He sighs in relief; as much as he dislikes interacting with children, he would dislike losing one even more.

Marius smiles easily at the kids around them, adjusting his glasses. "Because I'm the Doctor, and he's my companion."

"That's  _silly_." A girl with thick glasses and a long, black cape says, tugging at the hem of Marius' suit. 

In the ten or so minutes they've been travelling with the kids, Enjolras has been relieved to find that Marius is like some sort of small-child magnet. He supposes it makes sense; Marius is somewhat of a large, human-shaped puppy, and Enjolras, according to Grantaire, has 'a resting face that looks like anyone who talks to you faces brutal execution at the hands of rabid weasels. Or, paws, I guess. Weasels have paws, right?'. Enjolras smiles fondly at the memory of Grantaire when he said as much; barely lit by the small, west-facing window in Enjolras' room as the two of them lay together in the early morning. But-um, that's really not important or relevant at the moment, is it?

He shakes himself back into the conversation at hand, in which Marius is asking cheerfully, "Why is it silly?"

"Dresses are for  _girls_." The obnoxious child in the dinosaur costume sneers (as much as a small-child can sneer, anyway)

Marius laughs, and the girl in the cow costume giggles as well. "Matthew, dresses are for whoever wants to wear them." Oh yeah, Marius actually  _learned_  the kids' names. Show-off.

"Do you wear dresses, mister Marius?" The bumblebee girl (Stacy or Sarah or Sophie) asks quietly.

"Well, Nora, I don't usually, but I have a couple times."

As Nora (apparently  _not_  Stacy or Sarah or Sophie) begins to ask Marius if he's ever worn a princess dress, Enjolras feels a slight tug at the bottom of Cosette's pink, surprisingly comfortable, fifties style monstrosity. He looks down and finds a boy of about sevenish (if he's being perfectly honest, he regards all children as about sevenish) with a Captain America shirt and shield looking up at him with wide eyes.

"Miss Enj'res, can I be a company too?" The boy (whose name Enjolras isn't even going to  _try_  to remember) asks quietly, yet eagerly. Enjolras doesn't bother correcting the kid, because he's not naive enough to expect a sevenish year-old to pronounce his name correctly. At least, not on the first try.

"A company?"  _Sure_ , Enjolras thinks,  _if you want to grow up to be a capitalist regime of oppressive assholes who make a mockery of the economic system and greedily run our economy to the ground as they exploit the less fortunate for profit_. Somehow, he doesn't think that's quite what the kid means. 

The kid nods so hard Enjolras wonders absently about brain damage. "Yeah, like you are with mister Marius."

They're not a company. They're a non-profit organization of like-minded individuals with a common goal and ideal for chan- oh. It's possible the little boy is referring to their costumes. "You want to be a  _companion_?"

The kid nods again. "Yes please, miss Enj'res."

"Um, kid-" Shit, Enjolras wishes he knew his name. "I'm a mister, like you, not a miss. Since I am, in fact, a boy."

"Oh." The kid nods slowly, his blue eyes no less wide, and Enjolras wonders if maybe he was just born with less eyelid than the average human being. "So boys can't be miss?"

_Wow, Enjolras, way to re-enforce gender stereotypes in the minds of small children; aren't you supposed to be changing societal expectations?_  a voice that sounds eerily like Musichetta says in the back of his mind, and Enjolras stutters to correct himself. "No, no, boys can be 'miss' too."

Mini-Captain America nods, and plays with the band on his shield. "So can I be miss James?"

"Sure, why not?" Enjolras says, and James (see, he knows their names too, suck it Marius) beams, a smile lopsided and missing teeth but one of the cutest he's ever seen. Enjolras is struck with the sudden determination to befriend one- just one small child in his lifetime. He remembers fragments of Grantaire bonding with little kids, and it usually starts with him commenting on the kid's clothing and trying to find common interests, so Enjolras says, "I like your Captain America shirt."

"Oh, thanks." James smiles slightly and does a little half-skip.

"Do you like Captain America?" Official stupidest question Enjolras has ever asked, but James doesn't seem to mind, he just nods and smiles. "Why do you like him?"

"He saves people." James says simply, kicking a little pebble in his path.

Enjoras is seconds away from making a friend, he can feel it. (He registers what he's just thought and resolves never to mention  _any_  of this to Courfeyrac). "Do you wanna save people when you grow up? Like, be a fire-fighter, or a policeman?"

"No." James looks down, and Enjolras feels the potential friendship slip out of his hands.

No, no  _no_. He was so close! "Why not?"

"I'm not strong like them." James says quietly, shuffling his feet and wringing the strings of his candy bag. "I think I'll jus' try to help people."

Enjolras feels himself smile, almost beam at the kid. "I think that's awesome, miss James."

James smiles, and grabs Enjolras' hand quickly. "Thanks, miss Enj'res."

There's a little 'aw' from behind Enjolras, and he looks back to see Marius, now with bumblebee Nora on his shoulders, and with the dinosaur wearing the old 3D glasses Marius brought and the cow clinging onto his leg (which you would figure would impede his movement but he seems to be walking fine). Marius smiles at him and mouths 'you made a  _friend_ ', and Enjolras just ignores him as James squeezes his hand a little tighter.

 

\----------------------------------------

 

"Should I be expecting Eponine to stab me later?"

Combeferre laughs, holding Maddyson's hand as the little girl jumps onto the curb. "As long as we don't visit an Arby's, I'm sure she'll be fine."

"Um, mithter scientitht man?" Says Vinnie, the adorable lisping girl dressed as either Pocahontas or Tiger Lilly. 

Courfeyrac coos almost involuntarily, and asks, in a slightly higher than normal voice, "Yes, Vin-vin?"

"Whaths your name again?"

Courfeyrac frowns slightly. "It's kinda hard to- you know what? Just call me Carlos."

"Carloth."  Vinnie smiles, and adjust some of the feathers in her band. She's holding hands with her older brother, Micah, who's around twelve and dressed as a cowboy (Combeferre counted nine cowboys total, and two in his and Courfeyrac's group alone).

Agnes (called Aggie) and Millicent (called Millie), walk side-by-side in matching Gryffindor robes, their hair a darker red than Jehan has ever dyed his. They're very quiet, each eleven years old, and by far Combeferre's favorites; though Courfeyrac actually winced when he heard their names aloud, Combeferre understands what it's like to grow up with a terrible, old-person name. "And he's Combeferre." Millie says quietly, bowing her head.

Maddyson frowns. "Comafer? That's weird."

Combeferre laughs, tickling Maddyson softly in the side. "Call me Cecil, it's easier."

"Theethil." Vinnie says with a toothy grin, and Courfeyrac apparently thinks that's so adorable that he hides his face in his hands and doesn't stop smiling until they reach the next house and the woman at the door gives the kids pencils (Combeferre has to physically restrain him from going back to the house and demanding candy, but other than that things go rather well).

 

\----------------------------------------

 

"Bye, Cady." Grantaire says, waving to the little pig-tailed girl in a Spiderman costume. She, unfortunately, starts crying as soon as she realizes she's being taken away from 'Taire' and Joly, and her mom has to pick her up and carry her away as she screams about not wanting to leave.

As soon as the screaming fades and Cady has left, he and Joly are officially responsible for no more children.

"Boo-" He watches the door slowly close behind the mother and daughter.

"Yeah!" Joly cries, holding up his hand for the official Grantaire-Joly-Bossuet secret handshake, which Grantaire completes with a grin.

Almost instantly, Bossuet and Cosette come around the corner, and Cosette practically flings herself into Grantaire's arms. "Oh shit." Grantaire says, looking at Joly with panic in his eyes as Bossuet slumps into Joly's arms.

"How many did you lose?" Joly says quietly, wrapping his arms around Bossuet with a sympathetic smile.

"Not one." Cosette grumbles into Grantaire's shoulder. "We kept every child. Every single, Ritalin-needing, bat-shit insane candy junky in our possession. It felt like trying to keep Woodstock calm and composed."

Grantaire raises an eyebrow. "You had nine kids."

Bossuet groans. " _Don't_  remind me."

Grantaire doesn't bother trying to untangle Cosette from his arms until he sees Marius and passes the exhausted girl off to the love of her life. He looks around for his own, before glancing back to Marius. "Where's my boyfriend?"

Marius just gives him a sly grin as he adjusts the crown floating over Cosette's slightly-mussed Wanda hair. "He's at the front desk, saying goodbye. R, he made a  _friend_."

"Bullshit." Grantaire scoffs, but walks in the direction Marius pointed.

Along the way, he passes a pirate, who's excitedly waving his sword as he tells his astronaut friend, "I beat Zorro in a sword fight!'

The astronaut makes a confused face. "Who's Zorro?"

"I dunno." The pirate shrugs. "But he was, like, eight feet tall."

Grantaire chuckles to himself and pushes the double doors open, stepping through before stopping in is tracks. Sitting across from him is Enjolras, talking to a little kid with short blonde hair and bright blue eyes. Enjolras is saying "So, you see, if you want a longer naptime, you have to speak up. You can't expect change if you don't fight for it."

The little kid next to him nods, eyes wide. "So I should fight my teacher?"

Enjolras laughs. "No, that would probably end badly. Maybe just get a few of your friends to refuse to go back to work until you get more time to rest."

Oh for god's- "Enjolras?" Grantaire says, and man and boy both turn to look at him. "Are you promoting anarchy in kindergarten?"

Enjolras at least has the decency to look embarrassed. "Maybe a little." He gets to his feet and helps the kid up. "Never too early to start."

The blue-eyed boy (in a really awesome Captain America costume that Grantaire would have  _killed_  for as a kid), grabs Enjolras' leg and hides half-behind it. "Who's that?"

"This is Grantaire." Enjolras says, as Grantaire approaches. "Grantaire, this is James."

'James' narrows his eyes. "Is he evil?"  _Not_  really what he's used to when both he and Enjolras are around children. For the most part, kids usually assume Enjolras is some sort of very pretty evil villian. Grantaire feels a little surge of pride that Enjolras has found the one child on the planet who doesn't automatically assume he'll try to kill them.

Enjolras laughs, and pulls James by the hand forward. "He's my boyfriend, so I should hope not."

Grantaire kneels down in front of the kid, who looks vaguely terrified and suspicious of him. "Captain America, huh?" James nods. "So, you take good care of him? Protect him from bad guys?"

James nods again, with a little smile this time, and moves backward to grab at the hem of Enjolras' dress. "What does that mean, he's your boyfriend?"

Grantaire raises an eyebrow at Enjolras, who says simply, "It means I love him." Which pretty much stops Grantaire's heart in his chest. It's not like Enjolras hasn't said the words before, it's just that this is the first time he's ever said it in front of anyone  _other_  than Grantaire.

"Oh." James says, then takes two steps to stand in front of Grantaire, who's still kneeling. He clenches his little kid fists and narrows his eyes, then says, in a low, obviously meant to be threatening, voice, "Do you love him back?"

Grantaire smiles at the protectiveness this little kid apparently has for Enjolras. Also, it's entirely possible that he'll never be able to stop smiling. "Obviously, yes."

"You better." James huffs, then stomps back to Enjolras and doesn't look at Grantaire again.

Grantaire stands up, and raises an eyebrow at Enjolras. "I honestly thought Marius was being sarcastic when he said you made a friend."

Enjolras mouths 'I  _know_ ' excitedly, and pats James on the head with the least amount of awkwardness Grantaire has ever seen.

Soon after that, a tired-looking woman comes to collect her son. Enjolras kneels down to hug James tightly, and the kid says quietly, "Love you, Enj'res."

Enjolras beams down at the kid and ruffles his hair a bit. "Love you too, kid."

James grabs his mom's hand and gives Grantaire one last glare, then lets her pull him away. Before they reach the door, James turns again. "Bye miss Enj'res!"

"Bye miss James!" Enjolras calls back, and Grantaire riases an eyebrow. Enjolras huffs. "Just because he's a boy, doesn't mean he can't be a miss."

Grantaire just laughs softly and pulls Enjolras in by his dress. He can tell Eponine has coated his boyfriend's eyelashes with her crazy-intense mascara, and he's got faint traces of pink lipstick on his lips. "You look very pretty."

Enjolras blushes. "Thank you." He wraps his arms around Grantaire's waist. "You're not too bad, yourself."

Grantaire hums. "Okay, how long do we have to stick around, or can we just get the hell out of here and go home?"

"Someone's in a rush." Enjolras laughs, stroking the length of Grantaire's arm idly, something he's always liked to do.

Grantaire shrugs, leaning in so he's barely centimetres from Enjolras. He pauses before their lips meet and whispers, "Let's just say I'm on a mission from God." 

 

\----------------------------------------

 

"No, I don't think you understand.  _Enjolras_. Befriended a  _child_."

Musichetta scoffs, pulling the green wig off of Bossuet's head and placing it on her own. "I call bullshit."

"Seconded." Jehan says, snuggling into Courfeyrac's arms as their group sits in a little circle on the floor, finally rid of all their charges. "Anyone remember last Christmas?"

"You mean when Enjolras went on an anti-capitalist rant at the mall, made seven kids cry, and told two of them that Santa wasn't real, then got arrested by mall security?" Combeferre says dryly. "No, actually, remind me again what happened." Eponine laughs, and nudges him in the side with a whispered 'be nice'.

Courfeyrac laughs. "Yeah, Marius, I'm with them. Enjolras befriending a child is like-"

"I have photographic evidence of two different hugs." Marius interrupts proudly, holding up his phone, as Grantaire and Enjolras round the corner.

"It's true. His name was James, and I'm pretty sure he was ready to fight me for Enjolras' honor." Grantaire says, as he pulls Enjolras along by the hand.

Enjolras rolls his eyes. "Yes, I befriended a child. Yes, he was adorable, and no, he was not actually a figment of my imagination. Additionally, I think I gave the kids an entirely new concept of gender roles."

"Sure you did, sweetie." Eponine scoffs, from where she's sitting in Combeferre's lap, his arms wrapped around her.

Combeferre kisses her on the cheek with a smile, then turns to Musichetta. "Anyone get your costumes?"

Musichetta huffs, and Jehan pats her arm comfortingly. "I really shouldn't've expected kids their age to get Firefly references. I was young and naive."

"You tried, and that's what counts."Joly kisses her on the head softly, then leans back against Bossuet. "How's Feuilly?"

"Not out of work yet." Bahorel says, eyeing his phone. "Also he's got ten on Enjolras' new friend being a government spy sent to kill us all."

Enjolras groans, wrapping his arms around Grantaire, then pouts a little as he presses his chin onto the top of his head. "Is it so hard to believe I could have actually gotten along with an actual child?"

"Yes." The entire group says in unison, and Grantaire just laughs.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i thought the costumes were explained adequately but if they weren't let me know
> 
> also sorry for the delay in posting i'm currently on the road and stopping at little cafes to use their wifi because the cabins in which i stay have none


	8. Shopping

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> SORRY FOR THE DELAY I AM TERRIBLE AND I KNOW THIS

The thing about Enjolras is he is very much not a morning person. It’s hard to believe at first, what with his hard-on for social justice and passion for change, you’d expect him to be up at the crack of dawn, too driven to sleep. It also doesn’t hurt that he’s like a pretentious, angry, revolutionary Disney princess; it’s all too easy to imagine him waking up at the crack of dawn and singing as adorable squirrels and birds help him dress in his patriarchy-destroying sweater vests (not that they’d find any, Grantaire made him get rid of all of them a week after they moved in together). In reality, though, Enjolras doesn’t trust squirrels, calls birds ‘rats with wings’, and turns murderous if woken before nine in the morning.

Grantaire, on the other hand, finds it almost physically impossible to sleep in past six in the morning, seven at the latest. Since his summer on the coast, he’s grown to love the way the air feels in the early morning, the way a city will slowly wake up and he can be alone in the calm before the storm. So every morning, Grantaire tries his best to get out of bed without waking up his boyfriend, then makes himself some coffee or tea and starts working, usually on unfinished pieces, though sometimes he’ll take out his guitar and try and learn a few new songs. This morning, he’s sketching; a drawing he promised to give Gavroche by the end of the week- and he’s not very well going to disappoint the kid.

His cellphone rings, and he’s got about a second to process the fact that he left it in their room the night before, and thus left it where it will most certainly wake his grumpy-as-all-hell boyfriend, before Enjolras starts cursing.

“ _What._ " Enjolras’ muffled but very annoyed growl comes from the other room, and Grantaire sighs fondly, considers going into the bedroom to retrieve his phone, thinks it wouldn’t be worth it, and continues sketching. " _Do you know what time it is?_ " A beat. "No, I don’t either, but I know it’s too fucking early for you to- ugh,  _fine_.”

There are muffled stomps, then the wrenching sound of their bedroom door being flung open, before Grantaire’s cellphone is unceremoniously dropped on his lap. He glances up, and Enjolras is glaring at him with truly glorious bed-hair and an adorable pout. “It’s your fucking girlfriend.” He says curtly, then flops down on the couch, laying his head in Grantaire’s lap as Grantaire’s hand instinctively reaches out and tangles itself in the blond’s already-messy curls. Enjolras hums, a mixture of a noise of annoyance and a purr of contentment, and snuggles into Grantaire’s thigh.

“‘Sette?” He says into the phone as he lifts it to his ear.

"Your boyfriend’s gross." Cosette says, in lieu of a greeting, and Grantaire smiles. Enjolras, on the other hand, scoffs incredulously and nuzzles deeper into Grantaire.

"So’s yours."

There’s a laugh on the other line, and a few muffled words. “You’re on speaker, sweetheart, and Marius says that he’s my ‘goddamned husband, you curly-haired spanish word’.”

Grantaire raises an eyebrow. “Is ‘spanish word’ some sort of new derogatory insult I haven’t been informed of?”

"Nah," Cosette says. "I just can’t pronounce the name he called you, so I didn’t bother trying."

Grantaire laughs, and Enjolras picks up his head. “Can you ask her what the fuck she wants so I can drag you back to bed now?”

Cosette can pretty obviously hear him, because she laughs and says, “See? Gross. Anyway, tell Enjo that there will be no bed-dragging, as we are going to the market today. We’re meeting at Jehan and Courf’s, because it’s closest, in an hour, so get your revolutionary dressed and be there.”

"Oh, no way in hell." Enjolras says, and then says, considerably louder, "Cosette, I am going back to sleep right now!"

"You are not and you know it." Grantaire scoffs. "Local businesses, farm-grown produce, supporting an anti-big-business establishment…."

Enjolras growls but doesn’t respond.

"We’ll be there in an hour." Grantaire says, and he can hear Marius laughing on the other line as Cosette says goodbye and hangs up.

———————————————

"Ooh, tie-dye baby clothes!" Joly cries, pulling Musichetta towards a little tent containing racks filled to the brim with psychedelic onesies.

Musichetta rolls her eyes but lets herself be pulled along, watching out of the corner of her eye as Grantaire and Cosette individually sniff every single flavour of soap in one of the booths, and as Combeferre and Enjolras rifle through a collection of printed down-with-this-bad-thing shirts.

"Joly, honey, we have  _so many_  baby clothes, and no baby. We don’t need any more.” Musichetta sighs, but is ignored as Joly eagerly sifts through the rack.

"Shush, honey, these are environmentally friendly and super soft, obviously a wise investment." Joly mutters, shaking his head fondly. He’s got three different onesies in his arms by this point, and is currently deciding between one with an owl and one with a slightly different owl.

"Madre de dios- we’re having one child, not four." Musichetta scoffs, leaning down to examine a little stuffed Frankenstein-looking thing.

"First time parents?" Says a voice, and Musichetta looks up to see a woman (presumably the one to whom the booth belongs) smiling at her kindly. She’s wearing an outfit reminiscent of college-era Jehan- a flower-covered patchwork skirt and black, ripped top, with neon green rainboots, and has to be at least sixty.

Musichetta laughs. “What gave it away?”

The woman shrugs. “He’s got four different childcare books sticking out of his bag.”

And he does; Joly had found them at the booksale across the street from the farmer’s market, and insisted on buying them all, even if they have seven more at home.

Joly turns to smile at the woman. “It never hurts to be careful.”

The woman shrugs. “If you ask me, those books are a bunch of horseshit.”

Musichetta barks out a laugh at the scandalized expression her husband (in all senses of the word except the actual legal one) gives the market lady. “Oh really?” She says, curious.

"Well, I mean, they’re nice in theory, and they give you the basics, but what really matters is that the child is loved, and that they’re surrounded by love." The woman pauses, considering. "And that you don’t drop it and know how to change a diaper, obviously."

Musichetta laughs again as Joly eyes the woman warily. “Do you have children?”

"I did."

Joly looks apologetic, then says quietly. “I’m sorry- what happened?”

The woman raises her eyebrow at him, saying simply, “They grew up.”

Joly blushes, and shakes his head softly, as Musichetta chuckles at his mistake. He goes back to sorting through the racks, mumbling ‘if I wanted a hippy’s advice on how to raise my child I’d talk to my parents,’, as the woman looks kindly back to Musichetta.

"How long have you been together?"

"Going on six years, now." Musichetta smiles, watching as Joly lights up upon finding a onesie with a patchwork cow on the chest. "And I still find him as adorable as the first time he stuttered out a date invitation."

The woman smiles. “I have a feeling you’ll make a great mother.”

"Oh, really? Thanks." Musichetta smiles, then thinks. "He’ll make a better father."

From behind her, Bossuet calls, “Chetta!” She turns to look at  him, expecting one of two things: either his ‘shit-help-I-just-broke-another-expensive-thing’ face, or his ‘shit-help-I-ate-something-hot/spicy/that I’m allergic to/gross’ face, but instead is met with the ‘i’m-about-to-ask-a-huge-favour’ face. She sighs, exasperated but fond. “What do you need?”

"Twenty bucks."

She sighs, because it’s precisely his and Joly’s impulsive shopping habits that have lead to her complete and total control of their money at all times. “Absolutely not. Probably. What for?”

Bossuet grins, pointing down the row. “This guy’s selling a hand-carved mini-chair shaped like an elephant that would be perfect for the baby’s room. It looks so much like Grantaire’s painting; it’s insane.”

Musichetta sighs. Ever since Grantaire finished painting the nursery, Bossuet has been determinedly scouting out new and adorable things to put inside of it. “ _Fine_. But take Feuilly with you to check it out; I don’t want you buying something cheap and from Mexico.”

"Yeah, who needs another Courfeyrac, anyway?" Joly says with a grin, still browsing the racks.

Bossuet laughs at the comment, before saying excitedly, “Thank you, love of my life, my sun and stars, light of my existence-” He leans in to kiss her slowly, gratefully, and he tastes like honey and his lips are soft as they’ve ever been, and Musichetta smiles into the kiss.

Bossuet pulls away, smile mirroring hers, and kisses her once on the nose as she hands him a twenty dollar bill. “Use it well.” She says, and he laughs and practically skips off to find Feuilly.

She turns back to Joly, only to find the booth woman looking at her, eyebrow raised. “He seemed… nice.”

Musichetta laughs as she lifts a hand to her stomach once more. “He’s our husband.”

"He’s a bit of a clumsy oaf, but you can’t help who you love, right?" Joly says, holding up a bright blue onesie with a patchwork cow on the front. "We’ll take this one."

The woman nods somewhat absently, looking between them with a curious expression. “Surrounded by love it is, then?”

Joly laughs, glancing fondly towards Musichetta, who smiles back at him. “You have no idea.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> guys i had such a hard time writing this chapter I don't even know
> 
> thank you to sophia (sneakyweek.tumblr.com) for giving me the idea here by ranting about farmer's markets and how much she dislikes selling at them because she's been doing so for half her life
> 
> i dunno man it sounds like fun to me
> 
> anyway i've been camping for the past week and a half and I don't even know why I thought starting a 30day challenge right before I left would be a good idea
> 
> but I'm back now and that's what matters right?  
> [nervous laughter]
> 
> MORE TO COME WITH ALL OF MY PRECIOUS SNOWFLAKES  
> (also i love your comments you people make me incredibly happy okay thanks bye)


	9. Hanging Out With Friends

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> everyone's hung-over and you get to find out what my characters look like
> 
> it's good fun

"Okay, not to sound racist, but-"

Courfeyrac lifts his head from the couch. “You do realize only racist dipshits start sentences with ‘not to sound racist, but’, right?”

Bossuet glares at him. “But I’m not even being racist, I’m just saying, you’re a coconut.”

"A what?" Jehan calls amusedly from his position on the loveseat with Musichetta curled into his side, playing Angry Birds with a furious expression on her face, and Combeferre under his arm, making faces at Eponine when no one else is looking.

"A coconut." Bossuet says, shrugging. "Like, brown on the outside, white on the inside."

"You calling me white?" Courfeyrac, who has placed his face back down on the couch, mumbles into the cushions, as Combeferre can be heard muttering ‘oh  _no_ , not racist at  _all_ ’.

"Not white, no." Bossuet shrugs from his spot on the floor next to Enjolras. "Just very not-Mexican."

"Screw you, ese, I got street cred." Courfeyrac’s muffled voice says, as he raises his arms to make an upside down shove-it-up-your-ass gesture.

Enjolras, leaning against the couch, glances up at his best friend. “Courf, you grew up in a two story mansion and went on vacations to your summer house in Hawaii three times a year.”

"See?" Grantaire laughs, gesturing towards their friend. "Street cred."

Combeferre adjusts his glasses and looks over his shoulder at the rest of them. “Courfeyrac is fourth generation Mexican, so any and all street cred has all gone to shit at this point.” He shrugs, then throws a balled-up chocolate wrapper over his shoulder at Eponine. It hits her on the nose, and she flips him off. “Though, Bossuet, it’s not his fault he comes from wealth instead of the barrio.”

"Yeah, fuckin’ great gr’ma had to get all rich and shit," Courfeyrac moans into the couch, using what he has dubbed his ‘cholo voice’.

"How’s that?" Musichetta says, off-handedly, flicking her finger across her phone screen with a vengeance.

Combeferre, upon realizing Courfeyrac is not going to go into detail about his family history, smiles and does it for him. “His great grandmother came over from Mexico and got a job as this woman’s housekeeper. A woman who never married, and generally hated the human population.”

"Like Enjy." Bahorel grumbles, from behind the couch.

Enjolras throws a shoe over his shoulder, and they hear a ‘jesus fucking chris-’ before Enjolras says, “I do not hate them, I’m going to  _save_  them. Even if most of them are morons.” He frowns. “And never call me Enjy again.”

“ _Anyway_." Combeferre says, adjusting his glasses. "When the woman died, she essentially told her family to go fuck themselves and left all her money and the house to Courfeyrac’s great grandmother."

Courfeyrac points at Combeferre in agreement. “And then abuelita had to go and dig a grave for a cat or some shit, and the homegirl found, like, a million dollars in gold under a tree.”

Cosette crinkles her nose as she sits in Grantaire’s lap and he rocks her back and forth gently, arms around her waist. “Please never say ‘homegirl’ ever again.”

Courfeyrac laughs, and it vibrates throughout the couch. “Whatever you say, chica.”

"And then Marianna, that was her name, by the way, had financially responsible children who created something of a fortune with that million dollars."

"Yeah, and then dad had to go and marry a Jew, which almost got him disowned." Courfeyrac shakes his head. "Her too. It was like the blending of the two cultures most likely to never marry outside the family. Shit went  _down_.”

"Really, that accent is borderline offensive." Enjolras says, glancing up at Courfeyrac.

"Not to you, white boy."

There’s a second of silence, before Bahorel’s booming voice calls from the couch. “Dude.”

"Yeah?"

"Why the  _fuck_  do you have a french name?”

Courfeyrac shrugs. “Wasn’t born with it. But sometime around sixth grade I realized that this asshole-” He pats Enjolras on the head. “Was getting the shit kicked out of him for going by his pretentious-ass French last name, and my homie over there-” He gestures vaguely to what, everyone knows, is meant to be Combeferre, but is, in fact, a lamp. “Was getting the shit kicked out of him for being actually French. So I found a badass one and went with it.”

"You’re kidding." Jehan mumbles quietly. "What’s your real name?"

"Does it matter?" Courfeyrac says, still into the couch, and you’d figure he’d have to come up to breathe at least occasionally. "I had it legally changed, and no one’s called me it since I was thirteen."

"Wow." Eponine whistles. "To think, R, all that time we were wondering what the hell our parents were on when they named us, and some people  _chose_  fucking French first names.”

"It’s a fucked up world, Ep."

"Well, I fuckin’ had to, din’ I?" Courfeyrac mutters, shaking his head further into the couch. "Keep those two fuckin’ alive." He sits up then, and looks to Enjolras and Combeferre. "Say what you fuckin’ want about my street cred, it was the only thing that saved you gringos from daily beatings. I joined a fucking  _gang_  for you assholes.”

"A  _gang_?” Joly says, eyebrows raised. “I’m impressed.”

"Don’t be." Combeferre says. "We were eight."

Bahorel lets out a quiet, huffing laugh, and, as if on cue, the door opens.

"I come bearing Marius!" Feuilly’s voice calls, and Courfyerac, Eponine, Cosette, Grantaire and Jehan all cheer in unsion. Bahorel can be heard groaning ‘you fuckers’ from behind the couch.

Marius comes shuffling into the room, and takes in the sight before him. Courfeyrac is laying, in only his underwear, face-down on the couch with a large, very realistic narwhal drawn on his back. Seated in front of him are Enjolras and Bossuet, who are playing Uno. Enjolras’ hair is french-braided in a crown around his head, and Bossuet seems to have shaved off half of his hair, and maybe doesn’t realize it’s gone yet. Musichetta, Jehan, and Combeferre are all squeezed onto one couch, which is impressive because the couch really isn’t all that big. Combeferre and Musichetta are wearing almost-identical pairs of glasses, as usual, but now Combeferre is wearing what looks like four rainbow feather boas, and Musichetta is glaring at her phone with a gaze that may or may not cause spontaneous combustion. Jehan is wearing a hat shaped like a goldfish, along with polka-dotted pants, no shirt, and thigh-high leather boots. Eponine’s got an entire couch all to herself, is wearing catwoman sunglasses and a shirt that probably belonged to Courfeyrac at the start of the night, and is holding a giant inflatable shark. Across from her, Joly is barely visible under a mountain of pillows and blankets, and Cosette and Grantaire are wearing the same sweater, which is probably Jehan’s, matching footie pajamas with the green dog from that creepy kid’s cartoon on them, and swaying back and forth.

…he’s not entirely sure where Bahorel is.

"Damn." Feuilly whistles, after he’s closed the door and stepped beside Marius to survey the scene. He turns to raise an eyebrow, impressed, at Marius. "Looks like we missed a hell of a club night."

"It’s entirely possible I’m still drunk." Grantaire mutters, shaking his head.

Bossuet looks up from where he’s just placed a ‘Draw  Two on the top of the deck. Enjolras looks quasi-furious.”Grantaire, as you’ve noticed, is still completely wasted. Up until about a half hour ago ‘sette was talking about dancing oreos and killer penguins, but she seems to be coming down now. I’m a wee bit hungover, but that shit’ll pass. Eponine’s hung over big time, but she’s badass enough to be able to simply will it away,” Bossuet says with a shrug, and Eponine gives them a little salute. “Musichetta and Combeferre were only vaguely buzzed last night, since they aren’t legally allowed to party with the big kids, as is Enjy, but he doesn’t drink anyway so it wouldn’t matter.”

"Don’t fucking call me-"

"… _and_  Jehan, Courf and Bahorel are nursing some killer hangovers, so talk quietly.”

Jehan scoffs. “Hangovers are no match for me, lightweights.”

"I will fucking  _stab you_ in the brain.” Bahorel’s voice comes from behind the couch again, and Feuilly nods, understandingly.

"Can’t move?"

"Pain. Too much pain."

Marius chuckles and walks over to the tangle of limbs that is Cosette and Grantaire. He raises an eyebrow at the latter. “You still gay?”

"Last time I checked." Grantaire mutters, leaning back on the couch that contains Jehan, Musichetta, and Combeferre.

Marius nods. “So I don’t have to kick your ass, then.”

"Please don’t."

Marius sighs, and leans down to kiss his girlfriend on the forehead. Honestly, he’s used to this by now. This weird, hopefully platonic co-dependency that Cosette has with Grantaire. It’s strange, often uncomfortable, and he tries to never,  _ever_  dwell on the fact that Grantaire saw Cosette naked before he did. It’s taken everyone some adjustment, really, and they all fondly remember how confused Enjolras was when the group had to explain to them that Cosette and Grantaire were not, in fact, desperately in love.

At least not like that.

His beautiful Cosette smiles up at him with eyes half shut. “Killer penguins?” He says quietly, stroking her hair.

"Black and white and red all over…" She mutters, leaning her head back onto Grantaire’s chest.

Marius smiles fondly at her, then moves to steal a pillow from Joly’s fortress, before their medical student lets out a noise like a sheep being tickled.

"Don’t come any closer!" Joly near-shrieks, flailing his arms a little. Marius looks vaguely terrified, and Feuilly just raises an eyebrow.

"Why not?"

Musichetta sighs. “He thinks he has the Plague.”

"As in the Black one?"

Grantaire tuts, walking his fingers up Cosette’s leg. “See? Racism.”

Courfeyrac throws a pillow at him. It misses, naturally, because his aim is terrible enough when he’s  _not_  hung-over and inhaling couch leather.

"It still exists in certain parts of the country. I’m showing very Plaguey symptoms, and I don’t want any of you to catch anything."

"You know," Jehan says softly, looking at the medical student with kind eyes. "You wouldn’t get sick so often if you stopped eating things you’ve dropped on the floor."

Joly glares at him, and hugs his pillow closer to his chest. “Silence, heathen, it was the last slice of carrot-cake. One does not let puny germs get in the way of carrot-cake.”

"See?" Bossuet says, looking at his friend fondly. "Hopeless."

Feuilly rolls his eyes, pulls a pillow off of Joly’s pile, and tosses it to Marius. “So, what’s our hungover discussion topic of the day?”

"Racism." Eponine says, throwing a little fake flower (this being one-third Jehan’s living room, there are quite a lot of them scattered around)  at Combeferre lazily. "So far we’ve established that Courfeyrac is a cholo from the gated community, and that Combeferre and Enjolras are scrawny white boys."

"Screw you guys, I’m part Greek." Enjolras huffs, as he slaps down a Skip card.

Feuilly snorts. “Yeah, one-sixteenth doesn’t really count as a part, white boy.”

“You’re white.” Combeferre says, incredulous, before Enjolras can interject with the familiar rant about being third generation Greek.

"I’m white trash. There’s a difference.”

"Ooh, represent." Grantaire says, holding out his fist, which Feuilly pounds with a smile. "Trailer park or big city?"

Feuilly purses his lips. “Trailer park, I think.”

"Ah, damn. I’m city trash."

Courfeyrac groans into the couch cushions. “So you’re Mexicans by spirit, big fucking whoop. Eponine and I are Mexcellent by  _blood_.”

"She’s Cuban, dickhead." Grantaire mutters, throwing the first object within reach at Courfeyrac. Unfortunately, it’s a sock, so it doesn’t quite make it.

Joly’s muffled voice comes from the pillow fortress, “Really? I didn’t know that.”

She hums, sinking further into the couch. “Second-gen. I’m like, 90% sure my mom was a drug mule before she met my dad and settled down. She’s been living in the US for at least thirty years, and I’m still not sure she can’t legally be deported.”

"I could look it up, when my brain stops screaming at me." Bahorel mumbles.

"Oh, cool."

"So it’s only Me, Ferre, Enjolras, Jehan, Marius and Feuilly as representatives of the caucasian persuasion." Grantaire makes an impressed face. "I mean, yeah, still majority white-folks, but hey, that’s still a more diverse group of friends than I’ve been in in a long time."

"I feel so ethnic." Cosette says dryly, the words dripping with sarcasm.

"And well you should."

"Um, R?" Marius says, flopping down across Courfeyrac’s back. "I’m not white, I’m Italian."

"No shit." Bossuet nods, impressed. "I always thought you were just tan."

Joly hums thoughtfully. “Doesn’t Italian count as white?”

"Nah, too Cuban in spirit. Plus , they’re tannish." Eponine calls, sinking ever deeper into the squishiness of the couch. "Congrats, Marius. Sorry you no longer belong to the master race."

Marius shrugs. “It’s cool. Our food kicks ass.”

"So why ‘Marius’? That’s not a traditionally Italian name." Combeferre mutters, playing absently with a strand of Jehan’s hair.

"It- um, when I was little, after my parents died my grandpa took me in. He’s French, and apparently letting me keep my birth name would have just been too difficult for him." Marius scoffs, laying his head on the back of Courfeyrac’s.

"Well, I guess that- wait." Feuilly sits up, grinning at Marius. "No. No, that’s  _too_  good.”

Jehan raises an eyebrow. “What is?”

"Well, let’s look at the evidence at hand. Marius was taken in by his grandfather, who gave him a new name. " Feuilly says, propping himself up on his elbows. "It couldn’t have been too different from the old one, right? Because you can’t get a little kid to go by a name that’s drastically different from his old one." He gives Marius (who’s staring at him with a terrified expression) a wolfish grin. "Dude, is your real name  _Mario_?”

Marius stammers. “What? No!”

Bahorel starts laughing, a great booming thing that practically vibrates the floor.

"It totally is." Bossuet says, grinning.

"Is not!"

Cosette giggles, weaving her hand through the air. “Is too.”

Courfeyrac starts laughing gleefully into the couch as Marius mutters ‘traitor’. “Dude!” He says, reaching his arm to poke Marius in the arm. “Cosette can be your Princess Peach!”

"Yes, we’ve…." Cosette giggles, scrunching up her nose. "I’ve offered to roleplay, but-" She shrugs her shoulders with a smile, and Bahorel starts laughing even harder.

"R, how strong was that brownie?" Enjolras says cautiously, raising an eyebrow at the still giggling Cosette, and Grantaire just winks at him.

He looks down at Cosette then, raising an eyebrow. “Speaking of which- ‘sette, what race even  _are_  you?”

Cosette shrugs and makes a noise that sounds like a bird call. “Dunno. Mutt, probably.”

“Your dad’s white, though, so there’s that.” Says Musichetta, who’s cleaning her glasses with the same intensity previous applied to Angry Birds.

“There’s what? That doesn’t  _mean_  anything.” Cosette huffs, crossing her arms and shuffling deeper into Grantaire.

Marius sees the confused expressions on his friends faces and takes it upon himself to explain. “Our Cosette is adopted. She never knew her birth parents, and her dad met her birth mom, like, twice.”

“Yup yup.” Cosette frowns, picking at the strings of the sweater. “Though I’m probably Roman, too.”

“Roman?” Enjolras says, raising an eyebrow. “Does that count as a race?”

“She means  _Romani_.” Marius explains. “We figured out from snippets of what her dad has told her that she’s probably of gypsy blood.”

“But you’re so  _pale_.” Eponine near-gasps, at the same time as Jehan says airily, “Gypsy is a derogatory term, stop it.” and Grantaire says “Hunchback of Notre Dame cosplay- you, me, Enjolras. It’s happening.”, to which Enjolras just glares at him, and for some reason, this sets them all into exhausted but hysterical laughter.

As they finish, Musichetta smirks at them all and then pauses, thinking for a moment. “Cosette, what’s your natural hair colour? That might give us a couple hints as to your heritage.”

“Ah, a lady never tells.” Cosette says, absently playing with a lock of her sea-green hair. “What about you, chetty-cat?”

“That’s  _adorable_.” Bossuet stage-whispers to Enjolras, who looks like he could not possibly give less of a fuck about the adorableness of a nickname as he glares murderously at the pile of cards Bossuet has thrown down (Skip, Skip, Skip, Draw Four)

“I am a lovely mix of Colombian, Senegalese-”

“Not a word!” Jehan says, poking her in the side.

Musichetta’s eyes narrow. “Fuck you, this is my house, I can make up whatever god-damn words I want.”

“It’s my house too, jerkface.” Jehan scoffs, shoving her in the shoulder.

“And mine!” Joly pipes up, from within the pillow fortress.

Bahorel laughs. “Might as well be all of ours, for the amount of time we’re in it.”

“And Senegalese  _is_  a word.” Combeferre mutters helpfully.

“Thank you, Ferre.” Musichetta smiles and reaches out her hand to pat his shoulder gratefully. “ _Anyway_ , cabrones, Colombian, Senegalese and Argentinian.”

“Ooh.” Cosette giggles, pulling at Grantaire’s stringy curls idly. “How exotic.” She starts humming softly and swaying back and forth, until she falls over and takes Grantaire with her, the both of them laughing as they squirm around on the floor.

"You have the collective maturity of a two year old, I hope you realize." Enjolras says with an expression of pure disapproval. This, of course, leads Grantaire to grab a plush pillow lying next to him and throw it Enjolras. It connects perfectly; hitting the man square in the face, and a savage pillow fight begins almost immediately.

(The pillow fight ends with Enjolras, Jehan and Eponine cowering behind a pillow barricade as Enjolras waves a red pillowcase in the air, declaring that he will ‘not give in to tyranny’. Across the living room, Musichetta has claimed the armchair for ‘the queendom’, and is holding a pillow over her head and bitch-slapping anyone who so much as comes near it, and Combeferre and Courfeyrac have been tied together and gagged as prisoners of Bahorel, Grantaire, and Cosette’s realm Joly has declared the kitchen ‘Switzerland’ and is busy preparing snacks for when the bloodshed ends. Marius and Feuilly team up, standing back to back and swatting angrily at all those who approach them. Bossuet’s cowering behind the couch, begging his girlfriend to grant him shelter and protection, but Musichetta is a pirate queen and will not yield, but maybe hits him a tiny bit softer than the others, because she does love it when he bakes for her, and he won’t do so if she gives him a concussion.

In the end, Grantaire tackles Enjolras to the ground and they spend a good few seconds pressed flush against each other, breathing heavily, but that’s a story for another day)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> yes, my headcanon bossuet is a fucking beast at card games, for reasons no-one can quite figure out
> 
> and in case you didn't figure it out, the cosette in this story literally changes her hair colour like every month and a half
> 
> also, my timeline is super jumbled so if you're confused as to the order in which these stories take place, just lemme know
> 
> i appreciate the fuck out of comments, and thank you again for everyone who's read, commented on, subscribed to or left kudos on this story you guys make me really happy


	10. Hurt/Comfort

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> in which shit goes down

"Why?" Combeferre doesn’t so much as say the word as sigh it, and Eponine looks up at him, more terrified of that one word than she’s been of anything in a  _long_  time.

"Why?" She pauses, trying to think of an answer that won’t completely destroy everything. "I don’t know- I was drunk, I wa-"

"Not-" Combeferre takes off his glasses and begins wiping at them with his shirt. Eponine knows it’s so he won’t have to look at her, but she pretends she doesn’t. "I know why you did it. I want to know why you’re  _constantly_  trying to find reasons that this won’t work.” He looks up at her again. “Why you seem determined to find excuses to end this without even really giving it a chance. Are you  _really_  that afraid of being happy?”

"I’m not-"

"You are." Combeferre says, in the simplistic way he states difficult facts that he knows are true, facts that you are forced to accept whether you want to or not. Eponine’s not used to him using the tone with her; usually it’s directed at Enjolras. She doesn’t like the change. "You know it, on some level you do, and I just want to know why you want to fuck up your own life so badly."

Eponine doesn’t-  _can’t_ \- respond, because what the fuck are you supposed to say to that? She just gapes at him like the idiot she is, unable to form a single word, though she does manage a small, breathless, undignified squeak.

"Nothing? No witty retort? No clever comeback, no sassy chicana words of wisdom?" Combeferre rolls his eyes, and the bitterness in his voice is almost tangible. "Then I think you should leave."

"Ferre-" Eponine says, panicking now. "Don’t, c’mon, you know-"

"That wasn’t a request." He places his glasses back on his nose, still refusing to meet her eye, and stands up, walking towards the kitchen. "I’ll assume you know where the door is, even if you never use it."

Eponine watches him walk away, feels the first good thing to happen to her in a really long time slip through her fingers as she stands helpless, muted by her own inability to fix what she’s broken. Desperately, she tries the one thing that may save her: the words she couldn’t say before, the only words she can say now.

"Combeferre, I-" She takes a breath. "…I love you?"

He stops at the kitchen table, its surface still littered with Enjolras’ clippings, just like it has been for the past (at least) six months, then turns around to raise an eyebrow at her. “I’m  _sorry_ , was that a question?”

"No." Eponine ignores the venom in his words, and the fact that he s _till won’t look at her_. “Combeferre, I love you.” There’s a tiny voice inside of her that wants to follow the words with  _Fine, I said it. Happy now_? But she ignores it.

"Oh." Combeferre’s face is blank, and he blinks once, as if in shock, but his expression doesn’t change. "Well,  _thank you_ , Eponine. Thank you for saying it  _now._ ”

"I mean it. I love you." Eponine says sternly, though she’s pretty sure confessions of love aren’t supposed to be this aggressive.

“ _Well_.” His voice is dripping with bitter sarcasm, and Eponine has half a mind to slap him for it. “That fixes everything! I love you too, isn’t everything just  _grand?”_ He scoffs at her, eyes cruel. “Sorry Ep, that’s not how it works.”

Eponine’s eyes narrow, and she gets to her feet at last. “You don’t have to be such a  _dick_  about it.”

Combeferre’s eyes soften, just the tiniest bit, and his smirk fades. “I do, actually. Now will you  _get._ _Out._ ”

Eponine doesn’t have to be told a third time, and she sure as hell isn’t going to grovel at his feet. She has her pride, and it’s not like she was in this for the long-haul anyway. “Fine. Whatever. Have a nice life, Ferre.” She says bitterly, then marches to the door, wrenches it open, and slams it shut behind her.

—————————————————-

"Yay.  _Marriage_. An antiquated union between two supposedly consenting ‘adults’ that’s been historically a sexist establishment meant to reassert male dominance, as well as enforce patriarchal restrictions on women that make it okay to treat them as objects to be bought and sold, and keep them from having or enjoying sex.” Grantaire says tonelessly, as he half-heartedly waves the little rainbow flag Joly all but shoved in his face about half an hour prior. “And now you want to force it on the gays, too. How nice of you. Do I have to provide my own ball and chain, or…?”

Eponine huffs out a laugh at the scandalized and vaguely irritated expression on Courfeyrac’s face. Usually she’d look for the furious glare of the Great and Powerful Enj, but ever since Something happened between him and Grantaire a couple of weeks ago, and they’ve been avoiding each other ever since.

"R." Cosette says fondly, as she helps Marius lift up the banner.

"Yes’m?"

"Shut your face."

"Agreed." Enjolras suddenly appears next to Grantaire and Eponine, holding a large cardboard box presumably filled with ‘yay tolerance!’ flyers. He shoves the box into Grantaire’s arms with more force than could ever be necessary, saying. "I don’t need you. Here. I don’t need you  _here_. Be useful for once and go pass out some pamphlets.”

Eponine raises an eyebrow because  _wow_  Enjolras is being a little bitch about the Something. Grantaire looks like he might respond with some sort of sarcastic, passive-aggressive comment just to piss Enjolras off, but he apparently thinks better of it. He shrugs, readjusts the box, and says, “Whatever you say, your sun-godliness.” He looks towards Eponine, raising his eyebrow in an unspoken invitation. “Ep?”

"Yeah, why the hell not." She says, and follows him off the stage and into the gathered crowd.

—————————————————-

"So. Gay Marriage." Grantaire says finally, as they sit on a bench on the street corner and occasionally see how many people they can frighten by screaming 'GO GAY!" at them. There's quite a turn-out at this marriage equality thing, actually; lots of crazy religious nuts claiming being gay is a sin because they still live in the fucking Middle Ages, and even more angry college kids ready to fuck shit up. Some of which are her friends. 

Eponine nods. “Yeah, I heard it’s the biggest thing since sliced bread, and you know what a ruckus that one caused.”

Grantaire chuckles softly as his eyes drift towards the stage. Even from their current as-far-away-from-ex-whatevers position, they can still hear Enjolras’ voice ringing out as he speaks passionately about one thing or another. “Is this the part where we talk about what’s going on with you and Combeferre?”

It’s been four days since they broke up. “No, it’s really not.”

Grantaire nods understandingly, eyes still fixed on the stage.

Eponine turns to her best friend. “Is this the part when you break the news that you were dating Enjolras and we talk about our feelings?”

He laughs, and threads his hands through his hair as he groans reluctantly. “God, I hope not.”

Eponine raises an eyebrow. “You’re not surprised I know?”

Grantaire pulls his hands away, looking at her incredulously. “I can’t hide anything from you, you can’t hide anything from me. Of course I knew you knew, Ep,  _god_. Get with the program.”

She shoves him in the shoulder softly. “But- whatever you guys were, it’s over?”

Grantaire sighs, and reclines back in the bench. His eyes are indescribably tired, and he looks a little like every word is painful. “I honestly don’t know. Probably. It was all just  _convenience_  to him, anyway.”

"That’s what it was to me."

He turns to look at her. “Did he know that?”

She sighs, pushing back her bangs just so her hands have something to do other than fidget in her lap. “No.” Eponine sighs, and leans back against him. “And then it became more than that, and then I got scared. And I fucked up.”

"Strange how often it seems to go like that, huh?"

"Strange is one word for it."  _Fucked-up_   _would also be a good one_ , a voice that unhelpfully sounds like Combeferre says in the back of her mind.

They look back to the stage, and watch in silence for a few minutes. Eponine realizes how much she enjoys watching Combeferre- as he stands determinedly behind his friends, as he walks to the edges of the stage and passes out pamphlets, as he helps Courfeyrac with the sign he’s holding upside-down. As he smiles out at the crowd shyly, as he nods along with whatever point Enjolras is making. As his eyes narrow, and he marches to the front of the stage, as Enjolras says something in his ear and he waves his best friend off, as he jumps off the stage and begins arguing with a muscular shouting man, as he throws the first punch- wait.  _What_?

Eponine sits up straight as a board, as Bahorel and Jehan pull Combeferre, struggling, away from the (no doubt homophobic) asshole he’s just given his best right hook. There’s shouting between Combeferre and the man, and then the man’s friends join in, and soon all hell breaks loose.

She looses sight of her friends almost immediately as the crowd begins to buzz angrily, fights breaking out as the police arrive to ‘calm things down’ (read: beat up as many civilians as possible without being accused of unnecessary police brutality). She isn’t fully aware of him, but she knows Grantaire is rushing through the crowd right now, an unstoppable force with only one target: Enjolras. She knows this because she’s doing the exact same thing, towards Combeferre.

She doesn’t know when she started moving, but she knows she can’t stop. Not until she sees him, not until she makes sure-

She pushes through the crowd, shoving people, ducking punches and weapons, absently registering the muffled commands of police officers telling them to stop. They won’t. There are too many angry traditionalists, too many oppressed queers, for this to end easily. Anyone could’ve told them that.

Within seconds, Eponine is at the stage. She sees all of her closest friends literally fighting for what they believe in, whether it be the cause or each other, but she can’t see Combeferre. A man who looks half-drunk and all-crazy rushes her; she uses his momentum to send him flying into the concrete without a thought. She doesn’t have time for him, not now.

She scans the crowd frantically, looking for Combeferre’s familiar forest-green sweater, for his tragically non-ironic nerdy hair,  _anything_ _._  Unfortunately, because this is her life, she can’t see him. She can barely see anything, the frantic worry is clouding her vision in red, and she can’t _see him_.

A hand grabs her arm, and Eponine whips around at the touch, letting out a sigh of relief and worry simultaneously. Then she realizes it’s Grantaire holding onto her.

"Ep, we have to go. We have to go  _now_.” His other arm is holding hands with a furious-looking Enjolras, so good for him. At least something good came from this.

"No, I can’t, not without Combeferre-" She keeps turning, keeps scanning the crowd, and she can see Grantaire’s gaze soften, then harden again.

"He can take care of himself, he’s clean,  _you_ have a serious arrest record, and you could get trampled we can’t risk it-” Grantaire starts, mentioning the risks of staying, mentioning the promise they all made to split up and meet back at Musichetta, Joly and Jehan’s if anything goes wrong, but Eponine isn’t listening.

Because she can see him.

Through gaps in the mob, she can see him.

There’s a man, the same man as before, and he’s punching Combeferre. He’s bloody, and she hopes to god it’s someone else’s blood, though she can see the split lip from where she's standing. Combeferre falls to his knees, the man hits him again. And again. And again,

Eponine doesn’t even realize she’s moving until she stops. And she stops because Grantaire’s arms are around her, and she can’t understand why he won’t let her run, won’t let her help.

Combeferre falls over, head colliding with the ground.

Eponine starts to scream, or maybe she’s been screaming the entire time, or maybe she isn’t making any sound at all, but every part of her is screeching his name.

Grantaire pulls her away, lifts her off the ground, and she fights him.  _She has to get over there, she has to help, oh god she can’t leave him, not like that-_

The man starts kicking.

Her voice is hoarse from screaming, or maybe from crying, and she kicks and claws and  _can’t let Grantaire take her away, not now-_

But he keeps carrying her. Further, and further.

The gaps close up, and Combeferre disappears.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> um, so yeah. i decided that the backslash meant that the comfort was optional.
> 
> heh.


	11. Making Out

Jehan wonders if maybe Combeferre is actually dead.

That would be unfortunate.

It sure as hell looks like it; he’s not moving, his eyes are blank and lifeless, and he did warn them all about the potential risk of coming here today, so it would make some sort of cosmic sense for him to be dead. Though Jehan’s _pretty_  sure he’s just being dramatic.

He approaches him, pushing through the crowd of unnecessarily loud people, and cautiously and carefully bends over to examine his friend.

“Ferre?” He says quietly, pushing at his arm. “You okay?”

Combeferre turns to him slowly, his expression blank. “My brain cells… Jehan, I can  _feel_  them dying.”

Jehan laughs, sitting down on the couch next to his friend. “Calm down, you drama queen, it’s just a frat party.”

“No, Jehan, you don’t  _understand_.” Combeferre shakes his head and points to the wall across from them. “See that? That’s a periodic table of  _drinking_. And don’t even try to tell me the rampant misogyny in the air isn’t tangible.”

“Shush, you’re supposed to be having fun.”

“No,” Combeferre says, somewhat frantically. “No I’m not. Not here. I don’t  _belong_  here, and I don’t want to  _be_  here.” He huffs and glares at a passing fratboy who’s chasing a giggling girl, tickling her as they rush into a closet together.  “It’s all your stupid boyfriend’s fault.”

“Hey, Courfeyrac said he wanted to crash a frat party. Jake just made it possible.”

Combeferre grimaces. “Right, yeah, it’s Courfeyrac’s fault. It’s all that bastard’s fault- where is he, anyway? I’ve been meaning to murder him for a while now.”

Jehan laughs. “No idea. Want me to find?”

“No, I can do it-” Combeferre starts, but Jehan holds out a hand for him to stop.

“I think it’s better that you stay here. Wouldn’t want you going all Enjolras on these poor drunk miscreants.”

Combeferre nods. “Right, yeah, probably for the best. Can’t believe he got out of this-“

"He has the  _flu._ " Jehan scoffs, incredulous.

"I know." Combeferre huffs and crosses his arms, sinking further into the couch (though, Jehan notices, carefully avoiding the suspicious stain to his left). "Lucky bastard."

——————————-

"Have you seen Courfeyrac?" Jehan asks a girl who’s squinting at him as she sways back and forth on the edge of a table. "Hispanic, about yea tall, really good hair-"

"Dude." Jehan registers a gruff voice behind him absently as the girl in front of him starts leaning back against the table, obviously about  _this_  close to wasted. “Is that a chick or a guy?”

He sighs, and turns around. He’s wearing his favorite black-adorned sweater (it’s  _so_ comfy) and a pair of blue skinny jeans; its one of his least-feminine outfits, worn because he was trying to avoid this conversation (which he normally wouldn’t care about, but he is here only by his boyfriend’s reputation) that he just  _knew_  would happen with half-wasted cishet fratboys. The same type of fratboys that stand in front of him, one of them holding a pool cue, the other a red solo cup. “Does it matter?”

"Dude, it sounds like a guy." Says Dudebro One, the one with a pool cue.

“ _It_?” He scoffs, crossing his arms and raising an eyebrow.

Dudebro 1 laughs. “You’re a guy, right?”

"Depends on what you’re referring to." Jehan says calmly. "Sex or gender?"

"Hey, you’re Jean, right?" Dudebro 2 almost laughs, saluting him with a beer cup. "He’s a guy, asshole."

"Oh  _yeah_.” Dudebro 1 smirks at him. “You’re Jake’s-” He wraps his hand around the cue and pushes it up and down the length of it crudely. “Boyfriend.”

"You look like a fuckin’ chick, bro." Dudebro 2 says, as if he’s doing Jehan a favour by pointing it out. "Your hair-" His hair is in a complex, curling braid down his back, threaded with four different coloured ribbons.

"Maybe Jake likes it like that." Dudebro 1 says, taking another drink of whatever alcohol the caterers have been kind enough to provide. "Like a chick. Never thought he was one for cock, anyway."

This is when Jehan realizes that he  _knows_  these assholes. Dudebro 1 is Jake’s room-mate, Marcus, and Dudebro 2 is one of his pledge brothers, Tyler. Fuckers.

"No, I’m pretty sure he’s cool with the whole cock situation." A voice comes from behind Jehan, and suddenly Jake’s arms are around him. "Hey, sugar." He whispers, warm and vaguely uncomfotable, into Jehan’s ear.

"I’ve asked you not to call me that." Jehan says, and pries himself from Jake’s grip, because his boyfriend smells like cheep bear and chips, and that’s just not an attractive smell.

"Man, your girlfriend’s fucking  _needy_.” Marcus laughs, shoving Tyler in the side, and he laughs too.

Jake doesn’t laugh. “He’s a guy, dipshits. Gay, remember?”

"Yes, because that’s what matters here." Jehan mutters, under his breath, but no one hears him.

"Then why’s he dressed like a girl?" Marcus asks, and Jehan decides he’s had just enough of this conversation. He tells Jake he’s going to get some water, but his boyfriend just waves him off, too busy re-asserting his sexuality for his brothers.

He’s walking towards what is normally used as a kitchen but seems to be currently functioning as a keg cave when Courfeyrac grabs his arm with a smile.

"Jehan!" Courfeyrac says, smiling broadly at him. "I knew I recognized those gorgeous brown curls. Having fun?"

Jehan shrugs. “Having just about enough of insecure males using me to rebel and assert their sexuality just because I’m out and femme.”

Courfeyrac frowns, because the music is drowning out Jehan’s words. “No idea what you just said, but awesome!”

Jehan can’t help it, he smiles. He’s long since got over his crush on Courfeyrac (at least, that’s what he’s been telling himself), but when his friend smiles, it still lights up Jehan’s life a little, and he can’t ever resist smiling as well. The smile becomes a little forced though, and Courfeyrac definitely notices, because Courfeyrac has become so tuned into all of their friends’ moods that he can see them coming from a mile away.

"Outside?" He’s almost shouting against the blaring rap-dubstep mashup crap currently vibrating the floorboards, and Jehan smiles again, and nods.

——————————-

"Ouch." Courfeyrac says, after Jehan’s finished telling him about Jake’s tendency to see him more as a statement than as a romantic partner, something that’s been going on for the past couple of weeks. "So why don’t you just- you know, break up with the asshole."

"Because he’s not an asshole! He’s smart, and nice, and only asshole-y around his brothers." Jehan says quickly, and notices that Courfeyrac’s face changes just a little when he does. "He’s nice, really." Usually. Not so much lately, but the more Jehan convinces himself he can be perfectly happy with other people, the more he’ll be able to put Courfeyrac behind him. (in the non-sexy way, obviously).

"But that can’t work in the long run, can it? I mean, him using you to make a statement-"

"What, because dating means finding your soulmate every time?" Jehan scoffs. "Really, Courf, I’m supposed to be the romantic here. No, I don’t see Jake as a permanent thing- hell, I don’t even see him as a till-Christmas thing, but I’m happy with him now. And that’s enough." Especially because certain flirty hipster revolutionaries are oblivious as shit and allergic to commitment.

"Oh, well, if you’re happy, then…" Courfeyrac looks down at his hands, wringing his fingers together slowly.

"Well, enough bitching from me." Jehan says, very subtley changing the subject."How many numbers have you gotten so far?"

'Um.” Courfeyrac blushes. “Not really keeping track…”

Well, that’s a new one. Usually Courfeyrac keeps them all tallied down on his arm like he’s tracking the Silence instead of potential hook-ups. “Why not?”

"Um," Courfeyrac laughs nervously. “‘Cause I haven’t gotten any?" Jehan raises a ‘you’re-so-full-of-shit-sewers-are-jealous’ eyebrow at him, and Courfeyrac laughs and explains. "I don’t know, Je, I’m just- off my game, you know?

"Yeah." Jehan says, thumbing the fabric of his sweater. "I know."

They sit in silence for a second, looking out onto the unkempt, beer-bottle decorated lawn of the Omega Tau house, before Jehan decides he’s had just enough of being sad about love lives for one day. “Alright, c’mon, get up.” He says, jumping to his feet and extending an arm  ”We are going to have a killer dance party on this lawn right now, and you are going to fucking like it.”

"Yes  _sir._ " Courfeyrac says, laughing, and lets Jehan pull him up out of his chair. However, when he’s finally standing, he doesn’t let go of Jehan’s hand, instead pulls him into his chest and intertwines their fingers.

"What- what is this why are you touching me with your body." Jehan says, confused.

"Dancing." Courfeyrac explains, swaying Jehan slowly. "You wanted to dance, right? Well let’s slow dance."

"Slow dance." Jehan scoffs, because he cannot fucking deal with Courfeyrac’s homoerotic friendship right now. "To Nicki Minaj. Are you  _stoned?”_

 _"God, I wish._ " Courfeyrac mutters, and laughs. "I just- I whaven’t danced like this in like a year. Indulge me?" He gives Jehan a puppy dog look that is even more effective because it isn’t  _meant_  to be a puppy-dog look. It’s just adorable and heart-melting and- C _ourfeyrac._

"Fine." Jehan grumbles, and allows Courfeyrac to lead him around the lawn, slowly, shifting from foot to foot. He wraps his arms around Courfeyrac’s neck then, and they stop moving, just sway in place.

Courfeyrac grins down at Jehan, but his eyes aren’t quite happy. “Thanks, Je. This is.. nice.”

This, by the way, is one of those times where Courfeyrac accidentally enacts one of Jehan’s romantic fantasies in spontaneous friendliness. Those times? Suck. A  _lot_. Jehan nods,deciding to change the subject before he falls for Courfeyrac again (though again suggests he ever stopped being head-over-heels for Courfeyrac, which is incredibly unlikely) (shut up). “So, no one jumping at the chance to crawl into bed with you tonight? That’s weird.”

"Not really." Courfeyrac says quietly, turning away from Jehan. "I’m not really at my most alluring and available right now."

"Nonsense." Jehan says sternly. "Look at you, all sex hair and beautiful eyes and unbottoned shirt." There’s a line between friendly complements and waxing poetic about the object of your affection that Jehan is conveniently blind to when talking to Courfeyrac. Oh well. Who gives a fuck, right? Not like everything could ever happen, anyway."You could have anyone at this party. Anyone you want."

Courfeyrac laughs, or maybe he just stutters on his exhale, but it  _sounds_  like a laugh. “Nah, I can’t.”

Um, yeah he could, he’s fucking sexy as all hell. “Yeah,” Jehan laughs at the ridiculousness of an insecure Courfeyrac. “You could.”

"No." Courfeyrac says firmly, looking directly into Jehan’s eyes. "… I can’t."

And  _oh._  Oh god. He couldn’t- he wouldn’t- he can’t mean- _him_? “Oh my god.” Jehan says shakily, because  _he’s telling me this now?_  and _what the everliving fuck am I supposed to do with this information_  and more than a little  _what if he’s not even talking about me at all?_

But he is. That much is obvious as soon as Courfeyrac lets go on Jehan’s waist and backs away , panicking, and starts saying “Shit. Shitshitshit I’m sorry, god, pretend I didn’t say anything Jehan, please-“

"Me?" Jehan says quietly, pointing to his own chest incredulously. "You- want  _me?”_

Courfeyrac looks like he’s considering lying, then sighs. “Yeah. For- god, I don’t even know how long.” He runs his hands through his hair nervously, and looks pleadingly at Jehan. “But it’s fine, you know, you’re happy with Jake and I’m not going to screw that for you and I don’t expect anything from you and I can-“

But Jehan never finds out what Courfeyrac can do because before he can even finish his rant properly Jehan strides towards him and pulls him roughly towards him to kiss the everliving fuck out of Courfeyrac.

Courfeyrac doesn’t respond at first, in fact, Jehan’s pretty sure he’s so surprised that he keeps talking for a second, even with Jehan’s lips on his, but then he stops doing that idiotic thing and begins kissing back. Which is where the real fun begins, because Jehan now knows  _exactly_  why Courfeyrac gets so much action (not that he will anymore, Jehan will mark his territory by any means necessary, and he does mean  _any means necessary_ ). He’s a fucking  _phenomenal_ kisser.

The kissing is slow, tender, gentle. There’s barely even any tongue, and their hands mostly stay where they are; wrapped around each other, but it’s enough that Jehan knows when they finally get around to the good stuff, Courfeyrac’s going to blow his fucking  _mind._

Among other things.

Unfortunately, Jehan is a man of words, and he pulls away from Courfeyrac because he’s got something to say (also because oxygen was becoming an issue).

"You’re such an idiot, you know that?" He mutters, against Courfeyrac’s lips.

"Gettin’ there, yeah." Courfeyrac laughs, arms resting comfortably around Jehan’s waist. "So, I guess this means you’re not terribly upset that I’m in love with you."

In- what. “In  _love_?”

Courfeyrac raises an eyebrow.”Did I stutter?”

Jehan laughs, resting his forehead against Courfeyrac’s, then sighs. “You know, I still have a boyfriend.”

Courfeyrac groans. “Yeah, you might wanna take care of that.”

"Before or after I fuck you into a mattress?" Jehan near-growls, just to see what Courfeyrac does.

He chokes on air and his entire face goes red, that’s what he does. “Jesus, Jehan-” He takes a steadying breath, and Jehan just smirks at him. “Preferably before.”

"Yeah, probably for the best. I doubt Jake will care all that much, I get this feeling he’s into much more muscley men than me." He looks towards the party. "Wait for me?"

Courfeyrac kisses him on the lips quickly, softly. “Yeah, what the hell? I’ve lasted this long.”

Jehan just laughs, kisses him again, and all but skips back into the Omega Tau house to make his apologies to his boyfriend, and maybe tell of one of his drunken, narrow-minded frat budddies as well.

Then he’s going back to the man of his dreams.

As he walks inside, he realizes that Combeferre was wrong. Frat parties are the  _best_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> okay i have not proof-read this at all so there are probably like 80,000 mistakes please forgive me for them  
> guys i don't even fucking have spellcheck
> 
> my life is that sad
> 
> anyway, i will probably rewrite bits of this chapter, so don't fall too in love with them [laughs hysterically]
> 
> and no  
> i am not sorry at all for the way i began this chapter, or the way I ended the previous one  
> [laughs again, this time slightly more maniacally]
> 
> ....  
> god i need sleep


	12. Eating Ice Cream Together

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> the otp here is the brot3 combeferre/courfeyrac/enjolras, just fyi

It’s too early.

Combeferre can’t remember the last time he consciously thought those words, but they’re true. It’s too  _goddamn_ early. The sun isn’t even up yet, so he wouldn’t’ve bothered getting out of bed if it weren’t for the construction that just had to be happening directly outside his bedroom window. As it is, he was woken up and couldn’t go back to sleep, so he decided to make himself some breakfast and lounge around the apartment in a haze of self-pity. Yeah. That sounds like a good day.

He holds his arm up as he moves through the narrow hallway (narrow because Enjolras has crammed it full of posters and stacks of flyers and a huge filing cabinet full of snippets from various atrocities and things they should be angry about); by this point avoiding banging his cast on the shit Enjolras has filled the hallway with comes as a second nature to him. He shuffles groggily into the kitchen, and finds Enjolras sitting at the table, which is strange enough because Enjolras doesn’t get up before nine unless he absolutely has to, but even stranger still because he’s not moving, or muttering to himself, or even dressed. He’s in only his boxers and a sweater Combeferre somewhat recognizes, but he somehow has this nagging feeling that it didn’t originally belong to his friend.

"Morning." Combeferre half-yawns, crossing in front of the table, which is a complete  _disaster_. Not that it isn’t usually, but sometimes Enjolras will take a few clippings out to the alley and burn them, and that clears things up a bit. Combeferre shakes his head as he puts the kettle on. “You know, it’s generally expected that you be able to actually _dine_  on the dining table.”

Enjolras hums distractedly, glancing at the scattered papers, many of which are decorated with Grantaire’s surprisingly neat and organized handwriting. “I’ll clean tomorrow.”

"You will not, you bastard, and you know it." Combeferre says, rolling his eyes, as he pulls a piece of bread from the breadbox and moves to put it in the toaster. However, sitting in the toaster are two incredibly burnt pieces of toast. Combeferre sighs, and lets his eyes exasperatedly rake over the ‘memorial’ Courfeyrac has posted above said toaster, made of colorful post-its shaped like tombstones. His eyes then find Grantaire’s post-its, little dark green ones that point to the proper setting for toast (something Enjolras has never been able to suss out for himself), and see that Enjolras has set the toaster to the complete opposite side of the dial-  _oh_.

Combeferre turns around and looks a this best friend, finally recognizing what he’s wearing- it’s  _Grantaire’s_  sweater. He turns back to the toaster, pulling out the burnt, cold, depressing slices of bread and throws them away. After his toast has been warmed, coated in a thin layer of butter, and topped with a sprinkle of cinammon and sugar, Combeferre pours himself a cup of tea (they’re out of coffee, one of the great injustices of the world) and sits down from Enjolras, who is absently thumbing the edge of a flyer upon which Grantaire has written ‘THIS IS A BAD THING- WE SHOULD PUT A STOP TO IT…. TOMORROW’. He glances up at his best friend, concerned.

"Do you want to talk about it?"

Enjolras starts a little at his voice, but shakes his head. “No.”

Combeferre nods, and bites into his toast. Enjolras  _does_  want to talk about it, but will do so in his own time; Combeferre just has to be ready to listen. It’s their way. Enjolras won’t notice that anything’s wrong with Combeferre unless he spells it out carefully for him, and Combeferre notices when Enjolras is having any emotion. Ever. It works pretty well for them, since Enjolras won’t come to him for help unless he’s truly desperate, and Combeferre has never needed help to sort through things.

Except now, of course.

Combeferre’s finished with his toast and is drinking his tea without really tasting it when Enjolras speaks again, without lifting his head. “Grantaire moved to California.”

"I did realise that, yes." Combeferre says, then moves to correct him. "He didn’t move, Eponine- she said his stuff is still there, he’s coming back. He’s just taking a break."

Enjolras nods, and his fingers fidget with the edge of Grantaire’s sweater. “Grantaire went to California without telling me.”

Combeferre sighs, taking another long sip of his tea. “I know.”

Enjolras huffs, letting his head fall suddenly into his hands, rubbing his face with the palms of his head. He mutters, more of groans actually, “Grantaire and I- we were d- we were  _involved_.” Enjolras lifts his head up then, obviously searching Combeferre’s face for a reaction.

Combeferre just sighs. “Knew that, too.”

Enjolras’ eyes widen. “You did? But- how? We didn’t- he  _didn’t_ -“

"Eponine and I saw you on a date." Combeferre shrugs, ignoring the way the name stirs something much more painful than his broken arm in him. "Also, we live with you. We would’ve found out sooner or later. We just figured you had your reasons for keeping it secret."

"Oh." Enjolras nods once, then sighs, closing his eyes tight as if something is paining him. "Combeferre, I really fucked up."

"So did he."

"No, I was- no, I  _wasn’t_ -” Enjolras groans, running his hand through his hair frustratedly, then stops and looks Combeferre dead in the eyes. “Was it your fault?”

Combeferre scoffs. “Of course no-“

"Not- you and Eponine. Whatever happened." Enjolras pulls on the slightly baggy sweater uncomfortably, because this is Something They Do Not Talk About. "Was it your fault?"

Combeferre sighs, and knows he can’t lie to his friend, can’t avoid the subject. “Sometimes I think so. But no, it wasn’t.”

Enjolras nods slowly. “Then you can’t help me.”

"Probably not."

They sit there for at least a few minutes, both caught up in their own tattered excuses for love lives, before Enjolras speaks again. “It wasn’t anything- it wasn’t supposed to be- it was meant to be stress relief, and convenience. Nothing more could have worked. It wasn’t real.” Enjolras sighs, looking smaller and more defeated than Combeferre has ever seen him, and they’ve known each other for all their lives (save the first three years, but does that really even count?). “So why does it  _hurt_  so much?”

Combeferre sighs, looking at the stained bottom of his favourite mug. He thinks of Eponine and her smile, her laugh, the way she pouts when she wants something, the way she glares at you and you fear for your internal organs, the way she always looks like she’s the only person in on the biggest secret of the century. He shrugs, smiling almost bitterly. “Because… because love always does.”

————————————————-

They’re still sitting there when Courfeyrac bursts through the door, holding a giant paper bag. “Guess who brought goodies!”

Enjolras doesn’t look up, just continues staring at the piece of paper in his hand (this one is a photograph that says ‘NEVER GOT LAID EVEN ONCE IN HIGHSCHOOL OR COLLEGE- YOU CAN SEE IT IN HIS EYES’), so Combeferre takes it upon himself to respond. “Are you happier than usual? Because now is really not the-“

"Shh!" Courfeyrac presses a finger to Combeferre’s lips, and shakes his head. "I don’t care what you’re working on, I have goodies and news." He places the bag on the counter and moves so he’s standing inbetween the two of them and directly in front of the table. "Ask me what’s my news."

Enjolras groans. “Courf-“

"Jehan asked me to move in with him!" Courfeyrac blurts out, entire face lighting up as he relates the news. "He gave me the key to his apartment, hid it in a cupcake, actually, how cute is that? And he said it was time to take the next step in our relationship, and said he’d already started making space for me, and now Bossuet can move in with ‘chetta and Joly, he’s already over at theirs 98% of the time anyway, and everything is happy and look!" He holds out his palm, upon which a shiny silver key rests. "It’s like the key to his heart- isn’t that  _romantic_  and I had to tell you guys first, and Jehan’s gonna call Musichetta and then we’re going to have a huge party this week to celebrate!” He finishes finally, gasping in a breath, and looks to their faces expectantly.

Combeferre tries to be happy for him, he really does. Because Courfeyrac is his best friend and he’s finally found love and everything’s sunshine and rainbows, but it just  _hurts_. “That’s great, Courf.” He says, though his voice is somewhat devoid of emotion.

Enjolras nods. “I’m really happy for you both.” Enjolras is not convincing at  _all_ ; he looks like Courfeyrac has just announced George Bush has been suddenly re-elected for a third term and the right to vote has been limited to white, straight, republican, Christian males. So very not happy at all.

Courfeyrac’s face falls immediately. “Are you guys okay?”

Combeferre laughs, shaking his head slowly. “Define ‘okay’.”

"I’ll take that as a no." Courfeyrac’s expression is pure concern, and if you were to ask Combeferre, he’d tell you with certainty that that was his favourite thing about Courfeyrac: his ability to push aside his own feelings and needs when it was necessary to help others with their own problems. "What’s wrong?"

Combeferre shrugs. “Probably something to do with the fact that I broke up with Eponine and then certain bones in my arm broke up with other ones.” He lifts the casts with a wry, humorless smile, and then lowers it back down to the table.

Courfeyrac nods, squeezing Combeferre’s arm once with a kind expression, then turning to Enjolras.

"I-" Enjolras sighs. "I was sort-of dating sort-of hooking up with Grantaire secretely for a few months, and then we got in a fight and he ended things and when I said I wanted to make things work he moved to California without telling me."

"Went to California." Combeferre corrects, which earns him a smirk from Enjolras.

“ _Went_  to California without telling me. Right.”

Combeferre gives him a slight smile, before turning back to his other best friend, who is staring at Enjolras with his jaw dropped down further than is probably recommended. “I’m sorry-  _what_? You-  _Grantaire_ \- and we weren’t _informed_ -” Courfeyrac shuts his mouth, and turns to Combeferre with an accusing glare. “Why are you not freaking out?”

"Eponine and I went on our first date and saw them on one of theirs. We respected their privacy. Talking about her is pretty much physically painful- can we stop now?"

“ _You didn’t tell me_ -” Courfeyrac sighs, then takes a deep breath and closes his eyes for a few seconds. “Okay. Moving past this. Not what’s important right now, I get it.” He opens his eyes to look at Enjolras. “Do you need to talk abou- oh jesus christ on a jelly donut that’s R’s sweater.”

Enjolras huffs and leans backward away from Courfeyrac, wrapping his arms around himself protectively. “Not what’s important right now?”

"Right. Yes." Courfeyrac huffs out a laugh. "God, you know, I would have never thought you’d be able to keep anything a secret from me."

"Well, you haven’t been around a lot, have you?" Combeferre says, and Courfeyrac turns to look at him, obviously hurt. "Well, no- what I mean is- well, we don’t spend as much time together as we used to, you know?"

Courfeyrac frowns. “And that’s  _my_  fault?”

"Probably." Enjolras scoffs, picking at the papers on the table. "I see Combeferre everyday; lately it’s a good week if I see you two or three times."

"Hey, two-way street, you dick. If someone wasn’t so busy keeping dirty little secrets, maybe I’d see you occasionally."

Enjolras glares at him, and Combeferre places a hand on his friend’s arm to try and rein him in. “I haven’t been with Grantaire for a month. I’ve been in  _classes_ , you asshole. Getting my law degree.”

"Yeah, because this world needs more fucking  _lawyers_ …” Courfeyrac huffs, and Combeferre recognizes that he needs to interrupt right  _now_  as Enjolras gets his ranting face in position.

"Stop." He says simply, and they both turn to look at him. "Neither of you are to blame. We’ve just been busy lately."

Enjolras rolls his eyes. “Fine, whatever.” He says, then pauses. “And Grantaire wasn’t my  _dirty little secret_.”

"Really?" Courfeyrac raises an eyebrow and grins. "I was under the impression being fuckbuddies qualified as dirty."

"We weren’t- I mean, that’s so crude-"

Courfeyrac rolls his eyes. “So you don’t know how he does that thing with his tongue, or how good he is with those hands…” Instead of responding, Enjolras begins blushing a deep red and looks down. “Yeah. Fuckbuddies. Don’t even  _try_  to deny it.”

"Courfeyrac." Combeferre says, sternly but fondly, because he  _has_  missed his friend. “Don’t tease him; he’s sad.”

"Sorry, sorry." Courfeyrac raises his arms in surrender, then leans into Enjolras with a smile. "Who topped?"

Enjolras’ eyes widen comically and he begins choking on air, and Courfeyrac all but hoots with glee. “Well,  _damn_. Remind me to buy R a drink.”

"Oh, of course." Enjolras says sarcastically, taking a steadying breath. "As soon as he comes back, of course.  _If_  he comes back.”

"Oh." Courfeyrac’s smile slides off his face almost comically quickly. "Sorry. You fell for him, didn't you? -well, of course you fell in love with him, how could you not?" Courfeyrac says, then notices the confused expressions on both Enjolras and Combeferre’s faces. "Oh come on. You and Grantaire couldn’t  _possibly_  live without each other. It was obvious from the beginning that either you were going to kill each other, die together tragically, or spend the rest of your lives together. That’s just how you idiots work. And god, Enjolras, when have you ever done  _anything_ , anything at all, half way?”

Enjolras blushes, but doesn’t respond, so Courfeyrac continues. “So you guys wanna talk things out, or just watch Robin Hood: Men in Tights and eat our weight in ice-cream? ‘Cause I’m down for both.”

Combeferre glances at Enjolras, meeting his eye for a fraction of a second before they turn to Courfeyrac in unison and say, ‘Ice Cream.”

(Ten minutes later they sit, Courfeyrac’s arms around Combeferre, and Combeferre’s feet in Enjolras’ lap, spoon-feeding each-other Ben & Jerry’s. Combeferre looks up at Courfeyrac, who’s staring at the screen with the type of adoration that can only come from one’s favourite movie, and shushing them whenever they make even the slightest noise. He holds up a spoonful of ice cream, and Courfeyrac doesn’t even take his eyes off the movie as he eats it. Combeferre takes a second scoop, and hands it to Enjolras.

His best friend starts at the movement, and accepts the spoon. Before eating the ice cream, however, he reaches for Combeferre’s hand and squeezes it, just once, gently, as if saying ‘thank you’. Then he turns back to the t.v., and after a second, begins laughing so hard he snorts loudly, which only makes him and Courfeyrac laugh harder.

Combeferre listens to them laugh, laughs along with his best friends, and thinks that maybe, just maybe, things are all gonna turn out okay.)


	13. In a Different Clothing Style

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> brot3 musichetta/eponine/cosette being hotties that is the entire chapter

It all starts with their first ever ‘Girls’ Night’.

And yes, it is weird that they’ve been a part of Les Amis for four years and never had a night that’s just for the girls, but when they realize this, they’re very eager to remedy it. (Well, Cosette is, Musichetta’s ambivalent to the whole thing and Eponine has never seen the point of slumber parties and such, having grown up being friends with Grantaire and for the most part, only Grantaire) The problem is, they’re not exactly sure what Girls’ nights actually  _entail_.

Cosette hums, picking at her fingernails as they sit on the couch in Eponine and Grantaire’s apartment. “We could gossip?”

"About what?" Musichetta says, raising a sceptical eyebrow.

"…. yeah, scratch that."

Eponine takes a drink from her soda and makes a little face at both of them. “Aren’t we supposed to be talking about boys or giving each other makeovers?”

"Please no to the first; I have enough boys in my life without bringing them into a so-called ‘Girls’ Night’.” Musichetta huffs.

"And we’re already-" Cosette flips a strand of her hair (which she dyed the week before, it’s now a dark red that makes her look a little like a classic movie star) "Perfect, so makeovers are out."

"Conceited bitch." Eponine says with a smile, throwing a candy wrapper at her friend.

"Vapid harlot!" Cosette squeals as she ducks, looking affronted.

Musichetta laughs, and sighs. “I dunno, guys, I’d be up for a makeover. Or at least, some different clothes.” She says, picking at the fabric of her oversized t-shirt.

Cosette feels her jaw drop as she turns to Musichetta. “To like, actually  _wear_?”

"Like, clothes that fit?" Eponine says, equally shocked, and Cosette gives her a look that says ‘for god’s sake woman, have some tact’, but she ignores it. "You’re  _kidding_.”

(You see, the thing with Musichetta is that she’s got the body of a pin-up girl; all hour-glass figure and nice, deep tan skin. But she  _never dresses to fit it._ Her only clothes are baggy t-shirts and jeans that are way to big- she doesn’t even wear shorts in the summer. Cosette and Eponine realized this about half-way through their junior year, and when they asked her about it (read: when Eponine asked her straight-out ‘you’re such a hottie, why do you dress like a coal miner?’, she just sighed exasperatedly.

"I got boobs in seventh grade. Like, I was a B-cup by the end of the year, and every girl I knew  _hated_ me for it.” She shrugged. “By the end of high-school, every guy wanted to date me, all the girls wanted to hang out with me, and yet, everyone was shocked when I was Valedictorian. No one saw me as anything more than big tits and an ass, no one except Jehan, who was a life-saver, seriously, but anyway; I thought that when I got to college, that would change. People would take me seriously here. It didn’t, and they didn’t. So, sophomore year, I started hiding my body, just as an experiment. I never wore makeup, wore bras that hid what I had. And the change was  _immediate_.” She scoffed, tucking a strand of her hair behind her ear. “I got called on in some lectures more, but a lot of them less; it usually depended on whether or not the class was taught by a male. I stopped getting invited to random frat parties, started getting flyers for student groups. People took me more seriously, but noticed me less. It was nice, not being the girl that asshole guys followed back to their dorm. I’ve got a whole notebook tracking my results; it’s all very scientific.” she said with a wry grin.

"Wow." Cosette had said, impressed and a little upset. "That’s so ridiculous, it’s not like you got any less pretty."

"I didn’t, no." Musichetta frowned. "But according to statistics, the likelihood of me being raped went down by about forty-percent."

The three of them went silent for a second, thinking about that, before Eponine spoke. “Do you ever have those days when you just really  _hate_  men, and the society we live in?”

Musichetta laughed. “ _God_  yes.”

"At least our boys are the good kind?" Cosette said softly, shrugging one shoulder.

"True." Musichetta said, smiling slightly

"And you got twice as many as normal, without ever wearing a miniskirt  _or_  bitching about a love triangle.” Eponine said, shoving her shoulder playfully. “If that’s not a fuck-you to the patriarchy, I don’t know what is.”)

"But- the  _science.”_ Cosette says wistfully.

Musichetta shrugs. “I’m not in college anymore, right? I mean, yeah, this,” She held up the edge of her XL sweater. “Is like so fucking comfy I can’t even tell you, but if I want to go into a law career, I kinda have to dress for it. And this in no way counts as ‘professional dress’.”

"Okay, so Empress needs new clothes." Eponine nods, slowly, then pauses, and thinks. "Where does one get new clothes?"

"I-" Cosette thinks, and tries to remember the last time she’s bought clothing that didn’t come from a second-hand store. "Malls? Maybe?"

Musichetta laughs suddenly, lets her head fall into her hands and giggles semi-hysterically. After a second of Cosette and Eponine giving each other confused looks, Musichetta looks up and says, “Guys, I don’t think we could have a normal ‘Girls’ Night’ experience if we  _tried._  ..Which is what we’re doing, actually. And failing. Terribly.”

"I blame the two of you." Cosette huffs, crossing her arms and sticking out her lip in a pout. "I am perfectly girly and wonderful, thank  _you_.”

“Cállate, gringa.” Eponine says, making a little flicking motion with her hand.

"Oh wow." Cosette says, soft and emotionless. "You can speak Spanish. I’m so impressed, wow, good job, A plus." She rolls her eyes and makes a face at Eponine, then turns back to Musichetta. "Anyway, ignore little miss Cuban-grumpy-pants, let’s talk about your wardrobe revamp. I, for one, am very excited about the idea of bombshell Musichetta becoming a kick-ass warrior lawyer who stomps puny men under her comfortable let stylish heels."

Eponine raises an eyebrow. “Warrior lawyer?”

"If you don’t think spontaneous rhyming is the best you shouldn’t even bother talking to me." Cosette says, holding the palm of her hand up to Eponine and turning her head away (something commonly referred to by pre-teens as the ‘talk-to-the-hand’ gesture)

Musichetta laughs. “Okay, lawyer warrior queen it is. But-” She huffs, and wrings her hands a little bit, a habit she picked up from Joly. “How do I- change. Shouldn’t I like, get a new hairstyle and lose the glasses and start dating the quarterback or some bullshit like that?”

 Eponine gives a breathy laugh, then shakes her head. “Nah, I don’t think it really requires that much rom-com bullshit. But if you want the big reveal, I think I might just have an idea…”

————————————————-

Cosette should really learn to start running whenever Eponine has an idea. It  _never_  turns out well.

"R, talk to her. You can make her see reason, you can talk her out of it-" Cosette starts, before her phone buzzes twice and a new text message appears on the screen.

_[From: Ep] shut up and put on the damn outfit_

Cosette throws her phone onto the sofa and flops her body down next to it. “How does she  _do_ that?”

Grantaire emerges from his bathroom, hair wet and dripping, a towel wrapped around his waist, and scoops up the phone, then laughs as he reads the message. “We will quite literally never know.”

Cosette raises an eyebrow. “Hot damn, son.” She holds out her fist for Grantaire to bro-bump, and smiles. “California did you  _good._ " It totally did; Grantaire’s got a decent tan now, not even really qualifying as even light brown, but still very much a change from the near-paper whiteness of before. And his  _muscles_. Grantaire notices her raising an impressed eyebrow at them, and laughs.

"Mind out of the gutter, ‘sette."

She ignores him. “How much surfing did you do out there again?”

He rolls his eyes, but answers nonetheless. “Every morning at six, along with boxing, yoga every evening, and I taught a pilates class for some spare cash. And I biked everywhere because I was poor as shit.”

"Well, you certainly did something right." Musichetta pokes her head out of the kitchen. "Can I move to California in a heartbroken rage, too?"

Cosette closes her eyes and groans. “Chetta. We’ve  _talked_  about this. Filter.”

"Verbal filters are for the weak." Musichetta calls in reply, and Grantaire just laughs.

"You gonna show us anytime soon, or…?" He says, sitting down next to Cosette and shaking his wet hair, spraying her with a smatter of water, and she shoves him off the couch in retaliation.

There’s the sound of foot-steps, and Musichetta is suddenly standing in front of them, hands on her hips. “You’re both such  _children_.” She scoffs, but neither of them respond.

Because  _holy_   _Hera._

Musichetta is a fucking  _goddess._ At Eponine’s very aggressive insistence, she’s wearing a black- almost bikini that is strapless and is only saved from being a bikini by a cloth X across the waist. Her hair is curled and loose, falling in dark waves over one shoulder, and her eyes are dark lined and her lips blood red. Oh, and she’s wearing thigh-high leather boots.

"I feel like a stripper." Musichetta says drly, gesturing to her body, and Cosette scoops her jaw up off the floor.

"Chetta, strippers would literally  _kill_  to look like you.” Grantaire says, in awe, and Musichetta frowns.

"I’m not sure about the middle part- I mean, I’m not exactly model skinny-"

"You are perfect shut your goddamn mouth." Cosette huffs, and then groans and falls back into the couch. "No way in  _hell_  I’m doing this.”

"Oh no, If I have to you have to." Musichetta says sternly, pointing at Cosette. "Come on, Jehan’s doing it too. Fuck, even  _Grantaire’s_ doing it.”

Grantaire nods slowly. “I am.”

"Yeah, well your abs are fucking photo-shopped don’t even talk to me." Cosette frowns, and groans again. "I in no-way have the boobs for the- the  _outfit_  Ep made me buy.”

"What are you?" Musichetta asks, examining herself in the mirror Grantaire moved so it’s now propped against the living room wall.

 ”32B.” Grantaire and Cosette say at the same time, and laugh. 

Musichetta spins in place. “You lucky bitch.”

"Says the Kardashian." Cosette rolls her eyes.

"Do you even  _know_  how much money I’ve spent on sports bras? And I can’t fucking be upside down without choking myself…” Musichetta trails off, and Grantaire starts laughing semi-hysterically.

Cosette rolls her eyes at him and says, “Yeah, well, at least you’ve never been called ‘mosquito bites’.”

Grantaire stops laughing for a second and says, “Girls are literally never happy with their boobs, are they?”

"Hey, screw you, my boobs are awesome." Musichetta says, at the same time that Cosette says, "No, I love my girls, leave them alone." and they turn to each other and share a knowing smile, before the door opens and Eponine walks in, saying before she’s even entered the room, "Cosette, stop being a baby and put on the damn clothing."

"How did you-"

"Shut up and put it on." Eponine says firmly, hands on her hips, as she stands in front of the couch. 

"But-" Cosette stutters, and looks to Grantaire helplessly. "But aren’t we really conforming to patriarchal expectations and letting ourselves be ruled by the male archetype of physical attraction?”

"A good point." Musichetta says, pointing at Cosette. "But no."

"We are owning our sexuality." Eponine says, with a proud smile. "We are doing this for no one but ourselves, and god help the poor bastard who tries to take advantage of that."

"I mean, if it happens to turn our men on like nobody’s business, then all the better, and it really just serves us in the long run because you know we will have the  _best_  sex tonight.” Musichetta adds, and Grantaire raises an eyebrow.

"I will  _never_  not love the way you talk.”

Musichetta smiles. “Also, bonus, Grantaire gets to get his ex all hot and bothered.”

Eponine raises an eyebrow. “Did you tell  _everyone_  about you and Enjolras?”

Grantaire scoffs. “As if I’d need to tell Musichetta, with her intuition up the ass.”

Musichetta tips an invisible hat to Grantaire in response, and he grins.

"Cosette." Eponine turns back to the (now)red-head again, and raises an eyebrow.

"No you don’t  _understand_.” She whines, flailing her hands in the air. “My father- if he saw me- would  _never let me out of the house again._  I would be convent-bound faster than you could say a Hail-Mary.”

"Cosette, you live with Marius."

"Who would die of pure shock and Pontmercying, obviously, so this is a terrible idea."

All three of them give Cosette a look of pure judgment, and Grantaire sighs, exasperated. “You know you want to.”

And that’s the end of that.

Cosette hates her friends a lot sometimes.

————————————————-

Cosette loves her friends. Like a lot. They’re lovely wonderful supportive human beings, and they all look  _so damn fine_  right now. They could seriously be in a magazine. Or porn. Especially Grantaire and Jehan, like _damn._

They take a cab to the demonstration, because the girls are not fucking walking in heels, and neither is Jehan, constitution of a warrior queen or not. See, the perfect thing is today Les Amis have a booth set up at the University’s female rights fair thing, that takes place immediately after the Slut Walk. So they’re dressed as sluttily as they can (to help Musichetta come out as a public hottie), and made signs that say things like ‘STILL NOT ASKING FOR IT’ and ‘MY OUTFIT DOES NOT EQUAL CONSENT’. Les Amis are meeting up in a bookstore-coffee shop hybrid across the street, because the owners are pretty big supporters and offered their shop as a place for Les Amis to meet and get their shit together. They hide around the corner as they debate how they should make their entrance, because they are mature fully-functioning adults, obviously. After a good five minutes of debate, they decide to go in pairs, with Musichetta coming in last on her own, for maximum effect, because the day is really very about her.

Jehan and Eponine are the first to go. “Ready?” Jehan says, glancing at Eponine.

"Walk, walk, fashion baby." She says with a grin, and they set off.

Her and Jehan’s outfits are not that different, actually. They’re both wearing corsets, though Jehan’s is black and Eponine’s is white lace. Eponine’s corset is almost leotard-like, and she’s paired it with a pair of six inch cream heels, providing a sharp contrast to her dark skin color and darker hair. Grantaire did her hair up in a twisting bun and pinned her bangs up and away from her face, and she finished the look with dark red lipstick. Jehan’s corset is black and lacey and is doing a pretty damn good job of hiding the fact that he doesn’t actually have boobs. He’s paired it with a flaring skirt that opens in the middle, and looks quite gorgeous.

They walk arm in arm into the empty (save their friends) coffeeshop/bookstore, and push the doors open in sync, strutting into the room like the fashion gods they are.

Their friends are scattered throughout the main room, and don’t notice them at first, as Enjolras sits at a table, buried in paperwork and calling out commands, which the rest of the Amis are scurrying to complete.

Then Courfeyrac turns to the door to see who’s arrived, and drops the posters he’s holding. “Holy  _shit_.” He says, as they clatter to the floor.

"Two sluts, reporting for duty." Jehan says, squeezing Eponine’s arm with a smile.

Eponine watches with a smile as Combeferre turns to look at them and his jaw almost hits the ground.  _That’s_  the reaction she was looking for. “Hey honey.” She says with a smile, giving him a little two-finger salute.

He doesn’t respond, just makes a little breathless pathetic noise that could count as an extremely flustered greeting.

Enjolras lifts his head to look at them, and sighs. “Is there a reason for those outfits  _other_  than turning my two best friends into incompetent morons?”

"Hey." Courfeyrac says, somewhat offended, but has yet to pick up what he’s dropped or pull his eyes away from Jehan. so he can’t  _really_  argue Enjolras’ point.

Eponine wordlessly holds up her sign, which says ‘STILL NOT ASKING FOR IT’ In bright red letters, and Enjolras sighs.

"Fine, but I am holding you both  _personally_  responsible for any time Courfeyrac walks into a wall.”

Jehan just winks at him, and the two of them separate and walk over to their respective boyfriends.

Eponine all but struts over to Combeferre, and stands in front of him, one-handedly gesturing to the length of her body. “Thoughts?”

Combeferre gives a sharp intake of air. “You are absolutely the worst girlfriend ever.”

"Am I though?" She says with a wink, and leans down to kiss him, pulling him by his sadly not ironically worn bowtie and kissing him slowly, wrapping her hand around his neck and biting down on his bottom lip.

When she pulls away, she raises an eyebrow at him and he just stares at her. “ _Yes._  You are very much the worst human being I have ever come into contact with.”

Eponine just grins and sits down in the stool across the table from him, pulling out her phone and sending out a text to Grantaire and Cosette so they know it’s time to come in.

She fixes her eyes on Enjolras, watching him for a reaction when he sees Grantaire, hoping for at least a jaw drop or an embarrassed blush. What she gets, however, is  _so much better_.

Seconds before the door opens and Grantaire and Cosette waltz inside, Enjolras takes a small drink from his travel mug. When he looks up and sees them, he chokes on it.

Grantaire watches, smiling, as Enjolras coughs and blushes, but doesn’t take his eyes off of Grantaire. He’s wearing nothing on top, because his abs are pretty much the best thing to ever grace the planet, thank you surfing regimen, and is wearing a pair of black leather pants that are very,  _very_  tight. Next to him, Cosette is smiling feebly in the clothes that Eponine picked out for her: a bustier-top that shows off her tiny pale waist, and a black mini skirt to match it.

"Why-"Enjolras clears his throat again, his face dark red now. "Is everyone dressed like that?"

"Well, I don’t know about them, Enj." Grantaire says slowly, smirking at their leader. "But I’m here for the cause." His voice lowers and he looks Enjolras straight in the eye. "Use me as you will."

Eponine wonders if Grantaire is consciously  _trying_  to break Enjolras, because if he is, he’s succeeding.

(Five minutes after, Musichetta waltzes in in and the entire room goes silent. She’s wearing the outfit Eponine picked out for her and looks like fucking Beyonce, and the little squeal Joly gives when he sees her and the mug Bossuet breaks are so worth all the suspense. Courfyerac actually breaks into applause and Musichetta gives a little curtsy as the group gathered comes to terms with her complete and total hotness. About three minutes after that, they realize that Marius hasn’t moved since Cosette came in and Courfeyrac takes him to get a drink of water and calm down.

The Les Amis booth is a huge hit, though Eponine does have to threaten a douchebag with physical harm when he asks for her number about twenty-three times and won’t leave the booth area. Also, strangely enough, Feuilly and Bahorel seem to be the only ones manning the booth actually competent that day, because try as he might to stay focused, Enjolras keeps staring at Grantaire and muttering to himself, and occasionally frightening people by glaring at them until Courfeyrac has to take over, but even he can’t keep his eyes off Jehan for more than a couple minutes.

"Men are so easy." Musichetta says to Eponine and Cosette, as they stand to the side of the booth with their signs, and look out at the small crowd of men and a few women who have gathered to stare at them.

Cosette frowns. “I’m actually kind of worried I broke Marius. He’s not used to seeing me.. like this.”

They turn to look at Marius, who is standing a couple feet behind them, holding a large blanket. “Cosette please put this on.” He says weakly, waving it in the air with feeble hands.

"No, sweetie, sorry." Cosette says, barely able to contain her laugh as Marius just widens his eyes further and wiggles the blanket again.

Eponine turns to Cosette and raises an eyebrow, and that’s all it takes to get the three of them laughing hysterically,. Eponine glances back at Combeferre, who just shakes his head at them with fond disapproval, then blushes when she runs her tongue across the top of her lip and winks at him.

Successful Girl’s Night? Hell yes.)

————————————————-

Outfit References: [Cosette](https://saboskirt.com/images/thumbs/raiderbuss_3.jpg), [Eponine](http://24.media.tumblr.com/536567879cb08a56462a7594af09b68b/tumblr_moyx0cpUv41rop0rro1_500.jpg) [Musichetta](http://cdn.koimoi.com/wp-content/new-galleries/2013/07/Priyanka-Chopra-Exotic-ft-Pitbull-Pic-1.jpg)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> guys there is fanart
> 
> art has been made
> 
> i'm so ridiculously excited about this it's by little_wadoo who is like the greatest les amis artist on tumblr
> 
> it is here- http://littlewadoo.tumblr.com/post/59874306507/so-i-fell-in-love-with-this-fic-called-trente  
> and it's goddamn beautiful


	14. Morning Rituals

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> feuilly and bahorel do mornings

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i hate this chapter
> 
> a lot
> 
> for some reason it just refused to be written
> 
> but this was the best i could get it so HERE YOU FUCKING GO INTERNET
> 
> cool imma sleep now

Bahorel turns over and stretches slowly, casting a quick glance towards the clock, then smiles at the mess of red hair on the pillow next to him.

"Hey." He whispers slowly, poking the shoulder closest to him. "You awake?"

The girl turns around slowly and squints at him. “I am now.” She grumbles, frowning slightly as she yawns.

Bahorel smiles at her. She’s white, which isn’t usually his type, but she’s got these killer green eyes and a smatter of freckles across her nose, which are about four different kinds of great. “Wow, you’re gorgeous. Hey, remind me what your name is?”

She laughs, and her nose scrunches up a bit as she does. It’s an attractive nose scrunch. “Very smooth.” She huffs out a laugh as he raises an eyebrow, then freezes. “You  _can’t_ be serious.’

Bahorel shrugs. “Things are a bit hazy.”

"Natalia." She scoffs, looking offended as she sits up, pulling the sheet over herself, "My name, you  _asshole_ , is Natalia.”

"Ahh, yes." Bahorel smiles at her, his most charming smile (he hopes, or else he might be getting a slap or a knee in the crotch for his trouble). "Natalia, who is pre-med and has a younger brother who plays baseball and just went to state, Natalia who teaches yoga on the weekends and whose favorite color is green because she loves nature. Natalia who failed freshman art and loves children’s cartoons." He pauses, and raises an eyebrow. "That Natalia?"

Natalia gives a soft smile as she raises an eyebrow and nods slowly, her entire body relaxing as she does so. “Impressive.”

Bahorel shrugs. “I have a shit memory for names. I’m Bahorel, by the way.”

"Yeah." She smiles and runs a hand through her hair. "I know. I have a  _great_ memory for names.”

"Well, lucky you then." Bahorel says, leaning a little closer to her, and Natalia leans forward too, with a small smile. He feels like kissing her. She’s got great lips, nice and soft and warm, but he doesn’t kiss her; instead, he tucks a strand of hair behind her ear and smiles. "What do you like to eat?"

"Huh?"

"I make a damn good scrambled egg, but we’ve also got ingredients for whatever breakfast foods that tickle your fancy."

"Um," Natalia flushes, and looks at him curiously. "Uh, eggs are fine."

Bahorel grins. “Eggs it is, Madame Natalia.” He gives her a quick peck on the cheek and stands up, then pauses and gestures towards the closet. “If you don’t want to get back into that frankly gorgeous blue dress from last night, feel free to borrow something.”

He stands up and stretches again so she can admire the muscles in his shoulders (What? They’re really nice, okay? Like he’s not supposed to know his body kicks ass? Fuck off), and as he does so, he hears a little hum from behind him.

“Nice ink.” Natalia says, and Bahorel grins, and looks back at her over his shoulder.

“Why thank you.”

“You’re-.” Natalia pauses and tilts her head, like she’s considering something. “You’re not what I expected.”

“Is that a good thing?”

“Probably.” Natalia smiles, and shrugs. “Though you kind of ruined my goal of going home with some body-builder asshole who’ll be a great lay and otherwise a fucking dick.” She shakes her head. “It’s rather inconsiderate of you, really.”

“Well, at least the great lay part is true.” He says with a wink and leaves the room, followed by the not unpleasant sound of her laughter.

——————————————-

“”Ah, she emerges.” Bahorel grins as he butters the skillet. “ _And_  she’s wearing the dress.”

Natalia smiles sheepishly. “Yeah, um, mind if I skip the breakfast part? Sorry, it’s just that- Okay, honestly you weren’t supposed to be such a nice guy, more of a-“

“One night stand to get over a harsh breakup and make you feel pretty and dangerous?” Bahorel says helpfully, reaching down to the stove and turning down the heat a little. “And then you’d sneak out in the morning because ‘oh god what did I just do’ and then feel both empowered and also like you just screwed the bad-boy your mother would disown you for even  _talking_  to?”

“Um.” Natalia blushes, and shuffles from side-to-side. “Pretty much, yeah.”

“I get that a lot.” Bahorel shrugs, and smiles at her, because he really fucking  _does_ get it with like 75% of his hookups. And it’s not like he’s exactly jumping for the chance to start a long, meaningful relationship, but it would be nice if less beautiful women expected him to be a grade-A douchecake. “Though most girls stay for breakfast, just because it’s a free meal. And I’m a fucking  _excellent_  cook.”

Natalia looks like she’s considering it, and then shakes her head. “I really should go home. I’ve got- you know, pictures to burn, ice cream to eat, Netflix to watch…”

“A tumblr to update?” Bahorel says with a smirk, and laughs as Natalia freezes, looking horrified.

“Oh god, I  _didn’t_.”

“You did, actually.” Bahorel laughs, practically bellows, (he’s been told on multiple occasions that he sounds a bit like a mixture of a giant and a viking when he laughs, and he has absolutely no problem at all with that) and cracks the first egg. “And it seems fucking  _scary_ , girl. Cannibals?  _Really_?”

Natalia makes an affronted little huff. “Just one! And-” She sighs, then says weakly, “He’s pretty?”

He laughs again, and shakes his head.

“Yeah, I think I should just go before everything comes back to me and I die of embarrassment.” She nods, and smiles. “Thanks for a damn good night, Bahorel.”

“Pleasure was mine.” He says, giving her a little salute. “And if it helps any, this number?” He holds up his arm, where she scrawled seven digits the night before. ‘I’m never gonna call it.”

Natalia gasps, and presses the palm of her hand to her heart. “You  _dick_.” She smiles at him, lifts her purse over her shoulder, and walks out the door.

———————————————-

Bahorel’s almost finished with his breakfast when he hears footsteps approach from down the hall. “Morning, Asshat.” He says, not looking up from the paper. “Your eggs are under the foil.”

“Um.” A female voice comes from behind him, and he grins. _Looks like Feuilly got some too._   _Attaboy_. “Thanks?”

“Hey, sorry.” Bahorel grabs the newspaper and clears a space on the table. “Don’t mind me, just the room-mate, the name’s Bahorel, by the way.”

“Yeah.” The voice scoffs. “I know.”

Oh  _right_. Bahorel turns to get a better look at the girl in his kitchen. She’s Native American-ish, with half of her hair shaved off and the rest falling carelessly over her shoulder, these really intensely dark brown eyes, and can’t be more than five foot four. She’s wearing one of his shirts, interestingly enough, with a pair of Feuilly’s boxers, and nothing else. “Oh, hey. I know you.”

“You do.” She smiles and shakes her head. “Lennie?”

“Right! Lennie! You’re the somewhat girlfriend.” Bahorel grins, then pauses and raises a sly eyebrow. “Is this the first time you’ve slept over?”

“Yup.” Lennie sits down in the chair next to him and grins. ‘Though I’ll have to disappoint you and say you and your lady friend were the only ones getting lucky last night.”

Bahorel laughs, and Lennie grins back at him. “That’s a fucking shame.”

Lennie shrugs and picks at her shirt. “This one yours?”

Bahorel glances down at the shirt, which says in black text simply, ‘WILL BEAT YOU UP FOR FOOD’. “You really think it’d belong to your weak-ass boyfriend?”

“Fuck you.” A grumbling voice comes from the hallway, and Bahorel grins as Feuilly steps into the kitchen.

“I thought so.” Lennie smiles as Feuilly leans over to kiss her quickly, flipping off Bahorel as he does so. “It doesn’t smell like you.” She says to Feuilly softly, and he smirks.

“Damn right it doesn’t.” Says Bahorel, standing up and moving back over to the stove. “It smells like a real man.”

“I hate you so much dude.” Feuilly groans, unceremoniously flopping himself down in the seat next to Lennie and smiling tiredly at her. “He’s gonna make you breakfast, you know.”

“Oh,” Lennie says, then turns to Bahorel. “No, that’s okay, you really don’t have to-“

“He makes everyone breakfast.” Feuilly sighs, sinking deeper into his chair. “It’s hard-wired in his brain.”

“Hey, screw you, breakfast is fucking important.” Bahorel calls over his shoulder, then pauses. “So whatcha like, beautiful?”

“You know what I like, you fucker.” Feuilly growls, rolling his eyes.

Lennie laughs, and shoves Feuilly in the arm playfully. he raises an eyebrow in a silent question, and she sighs. “He was talking to  _me.”_ She rolls her eyes and turns back to Bahorel. “And I love pancakes, if you have ‘em. French toast is good too. But  _never_  waffles.”

Feuilly’s eyes widen almost comically. “How can you not-“

“Never. Waffles.” Lennie shakes her head, eyes wide, then whispers, “ _Never_.”

Feuilly laughs, and shakes his head as he smiles at her fondly. “Freak.”

Bahorel points to the skillet slowly warming on the burner. “Do not touch. I’ll be right back.” He walks down the hall to his room and Feuilly listens for the sound of his door closing behind him, then leans back forward and props his feet on the kitchen table. After maybe two seconds, Bahorel’s booming voice comes from down the hall, “Get your uneducated bitch-ass feet  _off_  my table.”

“You fucking-“ Feuilly groans and moves his feet to the floor. He glances at Lennie and huffs, frustrated. “I don’t know how the fuck he does that. Seriously,  _every_  time.”

Lennie nods, pulling the newspaper in front of her with a grin. “Fairy magic, obviously.”

———————————————-

Ten minutes later, Lennie has a plate of chocolate chip and banana pancakes sitting in front of her with caramel syrup, and Feuilly’s sitting next to her with a plate of bacon and a burrito, aggressively pretending he’s not enjoying them.

“So.” Feuilly says, pointing his fork at Bahorel. “Who was the girl?”

Bahorel grins, and rests his arms behind his head. “Natalia.” He sighs slightly, and smiles fondly at some of the highlights of the night before.

“She seemed enthusiastic.” Lennie says quietly as she cuts her pancakes, and both boys turn to her in surprise. “What?” Feuilly raises an eyebrow at her and Bahorel just grins a little wider. “I had to pee, so I got up and was treated to a salacious symphony. God, what a scandal.” She rolls her eyes.

Bahorel holds out a fist-bump and Lennie automatically bumps her fist to his, then looks at him curiously as Feuilly groans. “No, don’t befriend him.  _Never_  befriend him…”

“Shut your fucking face, ginge, I’m a delight.” Bahorel says with a grin, then winks at Lennie. “I like you.”

Lennie smiles at him with a mouthful of pancake and Feuilly groans. “No, don- why would you befriend him? What could he possibly have to offer you?”

“Embarrassing stories. Blackmail pictures. Hilarious tales of drunken debauchery. The possibilities are endless.” Lennie says with a little grin, and kisses Feuilly on the cheek when he grimaces at her words.

“Dude.” Bahorel’s eyes are wide, and he’s got a dazed smiled on his face as he turns to Feuilly. “I  _like_  her.”

“Yeah, I gathered.” Feuilly rolls his eyes, and without glancing at the clock, says, ‘You’re gonna be late.”

Bahorel scoffs. “Fuck you, I’m not gonna-“ He looks up at the clock above Feuilly’s head. “Shit, I’m gonna be late! You fucker, why didn’t you tell me?” He cries, pushing his chair out and rushing down the hall.

“Wait for it.” Feuilly says, taking a bite of his bacon and holding up one finger, and Lennie raises an eyebrow at him, amused.

Bahorel comes rushing back into the room and moves to stand in front of Lennie, who jumps a little in surprise. “It was bitchin’ seeing you again, though I’m pretty damn sure you’re too good for our boy here.”

“He’s not wrong.” Feuilly says with a shrug, finishing a piece of bacon, and Lennie smiles as Bahorel grabs her hand and places a soft kiss to the back of it.

“I hope you enjoy the pancakes, beautiful.” He says, before hurrying back into his room.

Lennie turns to Feuilly with a smirk. “I like him.”

Feuily just groans. “Yeah, I knew you would. He’s all charming and shit when he’s not kicking the crap out of people.” He sighs and takes another bite of his bacon. “You’re coming to the meeting tonight, yeah? Cause you can meet the rest of the fuckers.”

"I’m sure they’re fine." Lennie rolls her eyes and steals a piece of bacon. Feuilly doesn’t stop her, doesn’t complain, just lets her take it. Thinking about it, that probably means he’s in love. "You’re friends with Grantaire, right?"

Feuilly grins. “Yeah.”

Lennie nods, chewing the bacon slowly. “Is he in a rough relationship or something?”

"Um." Feuilly raises his eyebrow, confused, because Grantaire isn’t in  _any_  kind of relationship, nonetheless a rough one. “Why?”

"I mean, it’s none of my business and all that, it’s just- I dunno." She shrugs, and picks up another forkful of pancake. "He always paints his girlfriend either super aggressively or like she’s the fucking goddess of the sun."

Feuilly frowns, and then laughs, finally getting it. “Is- the person in his paintings, are they blond?”

"Yeah."

"No, that’s not his girlfriend, I’m gonna take a wild shot in the dark and say that’s Enjolras. You’ll meet him too." Feuilly says with a smile, because Grantaire is honestly fucking ridiculous sometimes.

Lennie nods sowly as she chews. “Is he super femme looking or does Grantaire just paint him like that?”

"Super femme looking." Feuilly says, taking a bite out of her pancakes (she doesn’t stop him either, so yeah. Love.).

Lennie nods with a slight smile. “That’s so punk rock.”

"How is that punk rock?"

She rolls her eyes. “It just is.”

"i don’t think you know what punk rock  _means_ -” Feuilly grins and pokes her in the side, and she slaps his hand away.

"Shut up, you don’t know what it means."

"Oh real mature-" Feuilly begins, before the echoing thumps of Bahorel’s elephant feet reach his ears and he sighs. "He’s lost his tie again. It’ll be either in the freezer or stuffed in a cookie tin."

"Hey, fucker, you seen my favorite tie?" Bahorel says, and Feuilly sighs.

"You know-"

"The necktie and waistcoat get-up in no way makes me look more professional?" Bahorel says in a mocking voice. "Fucking  _save_   _it_.”

Feuilly rolls his eyes and mouths ‘it really doesn’t, he looks like an idiot’ just as Bahorel begins rooting through their kitchen cabinets. “Don’t listen to him, Lennie, I look fucking amazing in a waistcoat.” Bahorel calls over his shoulder, pulling a black and red striped tie out of a dark blue cookie tin. “Found it!”

Feuilly gives a little wave of his hand like ‘i told you so’, and Lennie grins at the both of them and sits back to watch as they go about their morning.

"What’re your fucking keys doing in my satchel?" Bahorel groans, at the same time that Feuilly says, "You left your wallet on the table, dick basket," and the two of them give exasperated sighs.

Without looking or aiming (which probably isn’t actually possible and Lennie suspects this entire thing has been choreographed), Feuilly side-tosses the wallet upward as Bahorel does a kind of sideways-basketball-shooting-throw of the keys, and they catch the other object in their non-throwing hands. ( _It’s like a fucking juggling_  routine, Lennie thinks, amused, as she watches the two of them with a smile). Then Bahorel grabs an apple from a sad-looking bowl of fruit (and what looks like movie tickets) and stands in front of Feuilly, grinning. “What do you say?”

Feuilly huffs irritatedly, and glances to Lennie with an embarrassed expression, then turns back to Bahorel and holds out his hand, and as Bahorel grasps it and they begin a complex series of motions, mutters, “You is kind.”

Bahorel grins as they link thumb and do the finger wiggling thing, and looks him straight in the eye as he says, “You is smart.”

Their hands stop moving, ending clasped together again, and both boys bring the non-intertwined hand up to slap the other lightly (lightly for them, anyway, which means it probably stings at least a little) on the cheek, and then point at each other with their slapping hand. “You is important.” They say in unison, and Bahorel lets go of Feuilly’s hand, pulls his head forward, kisses his forehead aggressively and says, “Be good to her, asswipe.”

He gives Lennie a two-fingered salute and a small ‘ma’am’, then within seconds is walking through the front door and closing it behind him with a thud.

Feuilly turns to her and shrugs sheepishly. “We have some certain pre-established, created under-the-influence-of-tequila traditions.” He says, standing up to put his plate on the pile of the dishes to wash (it’s Bahorel’s turn for the dishes, but as far as Feuilly can tell, Bahorel has done the dishes maybe seven times in his entire existence, and that’s being generous, so Feuilly’s used to doing them anyway) and shaking his head slowly. “Sorry you had to see that.”

Lennie just grins and takes a sip of the cup of milk Bahorel had poured for her. She shrugs as she sets the cup back down, then looks up to smile at him playfully, because she didn’t mind in the slightest.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> also
> 
> 'you is kind' 
> 
> everyone assumes bahorel is a dick and just punches everything in the world, but he's not, he's got this amazing heart that no one sticks around long enough to see, and really cares about people
> 
> 'you is smart' 
> 
> when feuilly was little they put him in special ed because he didn't read like the other kids, because he had to teach himself, and everyone teased him for being the dumb one, but no one tried to help him get better so he had to work twice as hard just to be at the same level as the others
> 
> 'you is important'


	15. Spooning

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> it's not who you think

He isn’t thinking about him.

Honest, he isn’t. He isn’t noticing the way his breath falls slowly out of him and how his nose whistles occasionally, and he isn’t counting the number of times he’s run his fingers through his hair in frustration (eighteen- no, wait- nineteen).

He isn’t because that would mean he cared. And caring would- well, it would ruin everything. Because this- what they have, it’s easy. No complications, no feelings, no possibility of getting hurt. Just an extension of friendship. That’s what ‘Friends with Benefits’ means, after all. And it’s good, and he’s happy with it, really.

It’s not like he ever wishes Grantaire would stay the night so they could wake up in each other’s arms, it’s not like he spends long periods of time unable to actually get any work done, instead smiling at his phone like an idiot as Grantaire gives him constant updates on movies he’s watching (‘ _am i meant to hate the main character this much?’, ‘this animation is borderline horrifying make it stop’, ‘and yet another movie that would be 400% better with lesbians’_ ), and he absolutely does not make up dumb excuses to get Grantaire alone (today’s is most definitely not ‘i feel like the air conditioning may be possessed by some sort of demon and I need someone around in case it tries to eat my soul or something’ and even if it were, the thing does really make some terrifying noises in the dead of night, and he’s reasonably confident Grantaire would know how to avoid demonic possession; he’s full of weird facts).

He isn’t thinking about the small chuckle he gives as he erases lines that are slightly wonky on the page, or the way his nose has that little bump in it from getting broken close to three-hundred times.

He really likes that little bump.

But he’s not thinking about it.

Because he can’t be thinking about Grantaire, not like that. Because he knows what that means, and he knows what it’ll lead to.

Disappointment.

Awkwardness.

The words ‘I thought this was just for fun’.

Or even worse, an actual relationship, and then the words ‘this isn’t working’, and the loss of one of the most important people in his life.

So he isn’t thinking about Grantaire.

Not even a little bit.

"What the  _hell_  are you thinking about so angrily?”

Grantaire’s voice breaks him out of his almost-trance, and Enjolras starts and blinks rapidly, conscious of the way his eyebrows slide back to careful neutral. “What?” He says stupidly, because he heard the question fine, thank you.

Grantaire smirks at him. ‘You were- kind of glaring furiously at my left ear.”

Enjolras feels himself blush, because  _shit_. ”Was I?” Yeah, he probably was.

"Yeah." Grantaire smirks and stretches in his place, and Enjolras determinedly  _does not watch_  the way the muscles in his shoulders do th _e thing.._

It’s really hard not to think about someone if they’re sitting shirtless next to you, by the way.

"Like what you see?" Grantaire says with a smirk, but the smile doesn’t quite reach his eyes, and Enjolras knows why. It’s because of the bruises; the trailing, vaguely depressing tattoos, the long scar across his right side that no one but Eponine and Cosette seem to know the origin of, the slight splotchy-ness of his lower stomach that is most likely a long-faded burn. Enjolras has never understood why he’s so uncomfortable with them; they’re like trophies, every one of them showing a time life tried to push Grantaire down and he fought back.

Enjolras, in lieu of response, just smiles at him and places the book in his hands on the coffee table (he’d been reading the same paragraph for the last fifteen minutes, anyway) and shifts forward so he’s leaning over Grantaire in the space between his knees, and moves so the space between him and Grantaire is almost non-existent, then closes it by kissing him, just once, and slowly. “Yes.” He whispers into Grantaire’s mouth as he breaks the kiss, and without thinking, places the palm of his hand on Grantaire’s chest, feels the man’s heartbeat quicken, and becomes a little breathless as it does.

"Oh." Grantaire breathes back, breath coming out in coarse little huffs. "Um. I was- uh."

"Not important." Enjolras says with a shake of his head, pulling the sketchbook out of Grantaire’s hands and placing it on the table. 

Grantaire’s dumbstruck smile falls a little. “Well, yeah, I mean,  they’re just stupid sketches, pointless really-“

Oh for god’s sake. Enjolras sighs as he runs his hands up the length of Grantaire’s chest. “They’re amazing. You’re a great artist. But you’ll also notice I’ve put away my reading assignment in the interest of getting your lips on mine, and I’d very much like it if you extended me the same courtesy.”

Grantaire huffs out a laugh and twists a few strands of Enjolras’ hair around his finger as he smiles up at him. “You are the  _most_  pretentious friend with-” He starts, but Enjolras rolls his eyes and huffs frustratedly before cutting him off with a kiss.

 _This_  he can do.This is simple. This is kissing and roaming hands and trying to get as close as he possibly can to Grantaire. This is burying himself under Grantaire’s collar and inhaling the smell of him- of Eponine’s honeyed shampoo and the slight smell of sweat from the gym earlier, the lingering scent of smoke and vanilla (he must have visited Jehan today). He pulls off his own shirt and throws it to the side, smiles as Grantaire runs his fingers over the expanse of his stomach, tracing gentle circles into his hips. It tickles, just the slightest, and the next time Grantaire kisses him he’s covering Enjolras’ laugh with his lips, and then he’s being tickled even more because Grantaire knows his weak spots god _dammit_.

"Stop that!" Enjolras all but squeals as Grantaire hovers over him and tickles his sides and Enjolras is helpless to anything but squirm under him and laugh.

"Not gonna." Grantaire smirks, smile wide, and Enjolras only gets glimpses of it inbetween trying to wriggle away from Grantaire’s touch, but his smile is truly  _breathtaking_. Enjolras resolves in between shuddering laughs to thoroughly and extensively destroy whatever made Grantaire think his smiles should be hidden.

Enjolras laughs again and says “Get  _off_.” Which is really stupid because that’s precisely the last thing he wants right now, but he has to put up a fight or the whole game is ruined. For reasons he’s never been clear on.

Grantaire chuckles, “Make me.” His hands still and his head is dipped down above Enjolras’, and he’s straddling him and Enjolras can’t really think of coherent thought-like things but Grantaire is breathing harshly and so is Enjolras and they’re just sharing breath and staring at eachother as Grantaire leans in, slowly.

Which is, of course, when someone knocks on the door.

Fuck. His. Life.

 _Seriously_.

"Fuck, get off." Enjolras says quickly, trying to sit up as Grantaire looks, panicked, at the door. "Get off, get  _off_.” Grantaire hurries to move away from Enjolras and picks up his sketchbook and places it on his lap, his face reddening up to his ears.

The knocking continues as Enjolras stands up and shuffles quickly around the room, not entirely what he should be pretending to be doing. “Who is it?” He calls, because he’s got absolutely no other ideas.

The knocking stops. “Cosette!” A muffled female voice comes through the door (the voice apparently belongs to Cosette, who wins the award for Best Cockblock of the Year) and Enjolras sighs frustratedly as he thinks of oppression, the Westboro Baptist Church, kittens, anything but the feel of Grantaire’s rough hands on his skin, so maybe the tent in his pants will  _go the fuck away_. Cosette speaks again. “Is Grantaire here? He mentioned he’d be stopping by.”

Enjolras whips around at this to glare at Grantaire and mouths ‘this is  _your_  fault’ and Grantaire looks extremely apologetic for about a millisecond before shrugging like the bastard he is.

"Grantaire!" Enjolras shouts, even though he’s standing in front of the man, and smiles. "Open the damn door!"

Grantaire lets out a little exhale of laughter and shakes his head at Enjolras. “You get it!” He calls, leaning back into the couch.

"She’s here to see  _you_ , you idiot.” Enjolras calls in reply, as he moves into the kitchen to put the kettle on (he can literally think of no other non-suspicious activities, but give him a break, his mind’s on other things at the moment)

"It’s your damn apartment!" 

There’s a small groan from the other side of the door. “Will one of you fuckers just open the goddamn door I cannot deal with your fuckery today.”

Grantaire laughs at that, throws his head back into the couch as he does so, showing a long expanse of skin and Enjolras thinks getting that kind of response out of Grantaire is payment enough on Cosette’s part, and moves out of the kitchen to open the door for her.

"I did a thing." She says simply when he sees her and his jaw drops a little.

Her hair is black.

He’s known her for going on three years now, and he’s never, not once, seen her with black hair. “Holy-“

"Shh." She places a finger on his lips and shakes her head. "Where’s Grantaire?"

"Hey." Grantaire calls from the couch, and Cosette noticeably relaxes, every feature softening, as she moves past Enjolras and into the living room.

He’s been noticing things like this lately- how his friends react to Grantaire’s presence. Usually they will relax, or brighten, or calm down when he enters a room. He will most likely never admit it, but he likes watching Grantaire interact with other people. The way he dotes on Gavroche and gives the kid piggy-back rides any time he wants, the easy companionship he has with Cosette that Enjolras can only compare to his own relationship with Combeferre, the teasing familial bond between Eponine which is, at times, scarily strong, the way he, Bossuet and Joly have hundreds upon thousands of drinking stories and inside jokes, the way he and Feuilly seem to communicate with only raises of their eyebrows.

He closes the door slowly, thinking about Grantaire while trying really hard not to think about Grantaire, and turns back to his couch, upon which Grantaire and Cosette are spooning. Enjolras isn’t jealous, no sir. He’s just going to go make his tea and not think about Grantaire’s arms around him and make a cup for Cosette because something is obviously wrong and not be a little upset with her because why does  _she_  get to lay in his arms and not freak out about the simple thought of it? Why does she get to stay the night at his house and wake up in his arms and eat breakfast with him?

More importantly, why doesn’t he?

"You’re glaring at things again." Grantaire mutters with a smile as she sits in his lap (obviously he took care of the side-effects of their encounter a lot more efficiently than Enjolras did, so good for him) and he alternately tickles and massages her back .

"He’s always glaring at things." Cosette sighs, eyes closed, as she leans into Grantaire’s touch.

Grantaire shrugs, and gives him a little side-smile. “Maybe things deserved to be glared at.”

Enjolras smiles faintly and sits down on the other side of the couch, completely lost as to what to do. He feels like he’s intruding and like he doesn’t belong here. And it’s his own fucking  _living room_.

"What’s up, Euph?" Grantaire says, and Enjolras has no idea what ‘euph’ means, but it makes Cosette smile sadly.

Cosette tells them about her father’s failing health, and how he’s becoming more erratic and paranoid, and how all she’s ever wanted is to make him proud. She tells them about the times her father has gone on about the day he’ll be able to walk her down the aisle, and now she’s afraid that maybe that day won’t ever come, because it’s been three years and Marius doesn’t even talk about engagement.

She sits in Grantaire’s arms and sighs off into space, and Enjolras puts in Combeferre’s old copy of Anastasia because it’s the only thing he can think of to help. He watches as Grantaire holds the cup of tea for her and helps her drink it, somehow managing to not spill any of the tea on her, and as he reassures his best friend about her father and tells her how much Marius loves her. Grantaire is kind, and gentle, and sometimes so starkly different to the Grantaire he first met; that man was argumentative, cocky, and irritating and he’s still all of those things, but he’s also the man who volunteers daily at the youth center and can always make his friends smile, no matter how sad they are.

And Enjolras just wishes he could figure out why these things matter to him so much.

———————-

Enjolras did not ask for this.

Enjolras did not want this.

Enjolras wanted to have Grantaire over under the pretense of studying and fool around with him for a bit so he could scratch an itch (that never seems to actually go away).

Then again, when he interacts with Grantaire, he never gets exactly what he wants, which is why he’s currently sitting pushed up against the side of his couch with Combeferre squished into his side, Eponine sitting on his lap and Cosette laying across Eponine, Courfeyrac and Musichetta. Musichetta’s intertwined with Joly and Bossuet ( _somehow_ ) and Grantaire’s sitting on the complete  _opposite_  side of the couch next to the three of them. They’re all watching Anastasia, which is an admittedly excellent movie, but this was not at all how he expected this afternoon to go. 

Especially because he’s loosing feeling in his arm, because it’s caught between Combeferre and the couch. He wriggles it out of the vice and Combeferre shoots him an apologetic glance, and Enjolras just sighs and places the half-asleep arm behind the couch, which seems to be more comfortable.

Musichetta’s braiding Cosette’s hair because that’s how she and Jehan like to comfort people (it is, admittedly, a calming massage), and he’s happy to see Eponine and Combeferre are comfortable enough with their relationship to be affectionate in front of their friends as Combeferre presses a light kiss to the top of Eponine’s head and she smiles contentedly.

His gaze flicks to Grantaire, whose eyes are fixed on the screen and he, not for the first time, thinks about how they could never have that kind of relationship, even if he wanted it. Which he doesn’t, obviously.

Musichetta shuffles absently closer to Joly, who’s got an arm wrapped around her waist and smiles as she moves closer. Joly nuzzles into her a bit, then smiles as she giggles softly and sighs deeper into him, then he stretches upward in the opposite direction to press a kiss to Bossuet’s cheek. Bossuet, who has his arm around both of their shoulders, smiles fondly.

Enjolras, surrounded by his closest friends, is having a hard time feeling anything but alone.

Then he feels something touch his left pinky. he starts at the feel of it and figures his arm has tapped the back of the couch, so he adjusts the arm slightly. Then he feels it again, on the back of his hand this time, and glances around the side of the couch to see what exactly is touching his hand.

Oh.

Grantaire’s got his arm over the back of it as well, and is poking him gently with his outstretched little finger.

Enjolras feels his eyes widen and flick upwards, where he sees Grantaire looking at him sheepishly. He raises an eyebrow that has no business being that endearing, as if asking for silent permission. It takes him about half a second to decide ‘to hell with it’ and wrap his little finger around Grantaire’s. Grantaire, Enjolras is happy to note, blushes and tries to hide how pleased he is. Enjolras feels himself break into a smile, and turns his face back to the T.V. before he can look too far into whatever’s happening right now.

Whatever it is, he likes it.

Which, if he thinks about it, will probably end up being a problem.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry for the delay, i realise i'm terrible but I do also have like school and a life and also i fucking hated writing this chapter because 
> 
> HOW THE FUCK DO YOU WRITE PEOPLE SPOONING  
> LIKE WHAT WOULD YOU EVEN WRITE ABOUT
> 
> it is my personal belief that writing about spooning alone would be incredibly boring and also the thought of it gave me a headache
> 
> so i wrote this instead
> 
> enjoy my enjolras


	16. Doing Something Together

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> in which enjolras pines and grantaire and cosette steal people's money with mad skill

There are a large quantity of things that Enjolras just can’t understand. Over-sugared breakfast cereal, deep-fried twinkies, monarchies, church hierarchies, ignorance and intolerance have all been on the list for as long as he can remember. As he sits uncomfortably in a an unpleasantly-warm bar and perches on an uncomfortable bar stool, he decides to definitively add ‘pool’ and ‘scavenger hunts’ to the list.

Perhaps some explanation is necessary.

It’s Courfeyrac’s birthday, which, if you have any knowledge of Courfeyrac at all, even the slightest inkling of the man’s personality, should be enough to strike fear into your heart. After the obligatory group celebration at Joly, Musichetta, and Bossuet’s apartment, Courfeyrac’s requested activity for the year was a scavenger hunt, in which the rules were as follows:

  * _no cell phones (encourages dirty rotten cheaters to be dirty and rotten)_

  * _items are spread throughout the city, and you must take a picture of a group member with each found item_

  * _no driving allowed, we must save the planet and shit_

  * _you must be back at home base by midnight, or you are disqualified_

  * _you must ACTUALLY TRY (looking at you, enjolras). all members of the winning team receive the baked good of their choice graciously provided by the lovely cosette (unless the member happens to be enjolras, in which case, you can either choose a baked good or one Get Out of A Courfeyrac Shenanigan Free card)_

  * _team groups will be chosen by fate;  you cannot change your team even if the love of your life is on another team. sorry, but them’s the breaks._




Enjolras’ team, because fate is a cruel, heartless fucker, was composed of him, Eponine, Cosette, Marius, Courfeyrac, and, of course, Grantaire. Grantaire and Cosette had named it Team Stark, and no one else really cared to contest the name. The other teams were Team Dr. Evil, which had Azelma, Combeferre, Jehan, and Lennie, who were all good enough in a competition, but unfortunately contained Bossuet, who was really only good for card games. The last team (Team Satan) only had four members, but one of them was Gavroche, so they were still at an advantage. With him were Musichetta, Feuilly, and Joly.

The competition was pretty straightforward; they were given a list and a camera and released into the depths of the city, and had to make it back to the apartment by midnight. Grantaire and Eponine turned out to be major assets; the two of them knew the city like they knew each other- completely and intimately.

Unfortunately, they did have Marius, who, although brilliant with languages and history and, strangely, random facts about foreign cultures, couldn’t find his way out of a paper bag with three compasses and a map.

So, of course, with Marius’ luck, they all ended up on the complete other side of town from the apartment, in a part of town that looked like it’d really seen better days. And those days were probably sometime in the 1950s.

”I don’t even  _understand_." Eponine had said as they stood on the street, trying to figure out how they’d gotten so far away so quickly. "We- how did we get here?"

"Well, we were looking for a homoerotic statue, and then a classy pigeon, and maybe we got side-tracked?" Cosette said quietly, then held her hand out, palm up. "Is it-  _raining_?”

Eponine groaned, exasperated, then swiveled around to glare at Marius. “I blame  _you_.” She hissed, pointing a vengeful finger at him.

"What did I do?" Marius whimpered weakly, looking to his fiance with panic in his eyes.

Grantaire shrugged, that stupid little shrug he was always doing when he tried to act nonchalant. “I don’t know, Mar, but the way I see it, Ep and I have been to every nook and cranny in this entire city-“

"And we’ve  _never_  gotten this far off course.” Eponine sighed and pushed back her hair, irritated. “I barely recognize these places, for fuck’s sake.”

Cosette frowned. “Guys? It is  _actually_  raining.”

——————————  
  


So that’s how they ended up here. In a dingy, weirdly warm, strangely lit bar, watching Cosette try (and fail) to play pool.

Enjolras doesn’t quite understand what’s going on, but he’s been seriously considering offering Marius up as a sacrifice to whatever deity decided to introduce hail and pouring rain into their already-shitty day.

"I’m sorry," He says at last, as Cosette hits the wrong ball with the cue (apparently) and giggles sheepishly as she does so, flipping her hair over one shoulder. "I don’t understand, why did Cosette have to change to play pool?"

The girl’s now-blonde hair is loosely falling over her shoulders and down the side of the almost skin-tight red dress Grantaire had pulled from seemingly nowhere, and into which she had changed from the far more practical outfit of jeans and a t-shirt she’d been wearing before.

"Because," Eponine drawls, from where she’s leaning back against the bar. "A good con needs three things: skill," She gestures to Grantaire and Cosette, who are grinning at each other as Grantaire tries fruitlessly to teach Cosette how to hold the cue. "Back-up," She points to herself. "And bait." She gestures in Grantaire and Cosette’s direction as if all of this should be glaringly obvious to Enjolras. "Which used to be me, but, in all honesty, I suck ass at pool."

"So-" Enjolras raises an eyebrow as the chips fall into place. "You’re…  _hustling_  pool?” He looks to Marius. “And you just go along with all of this?”

Marius rolls his eyes. “This is like, a typical Saturday night for those two. Cosette can take care of herself, and even if she couldn’t, I’m pretty sure Grantaire would beat anyone who touched her to death with their own spleen.” He shrugs, and takes a sip from his Shirley Temple. “Not exactly worried here.”

Enjolras frowns, because he was really not looking for a reminder of how talented, loyal, and strong Grantaire was tonight, but it seems that no one actually cares what he wants tonight, so he leans back in his stool and watches Grantaire and Cosette work.

——————————

Their first victim looks nice enough, though the way he’s leering at Cosette puts all of them on edge, especially Marius, who doesn’t even try to hide the way he’s glaring at the man.

Grantaire hangs back this time, comes to stand by Enjolras, who is not entirely pleased with this situation or their proximity- or  _anything_ , really. Especially the way Grantaire looks at him.

Grantaire, for as long as he’s known him, has always kept his eyes on Enjolras a bit too long, lingering for the slightest second when most would have looked away, and Enjolras always figured that was the way Grantaire looked at people. But then he went to God Knows Where, California, and now he hardly glances at Enjolras, an when he does, his eyes flicker away almost instantly. Enjolras finds himself missing the way those piercing blue eyes lingered, the way they flat-out stared sometimes.

"Having fun?" Grantaire says with a smirk, breaking Enjolras away from his thoughts as he lifts himself up into the stool next to Enjolras.

Enjolras scoffs. “Oh, oodles of it.” Grantaire laughs at the phrase, and Enjolras watches as he throws his head back and shows an expanse of neck, and aggressively does not remember the way he used to be able to lick slow lines up that neck. He turns back to Cosette. “So, you do this a lot, huh?” Good one, Enjolras. Thought-provoking, really.

Grantaire shrugs. “It’s fun, and it gives us some extra cash.” He glances over at Cosette, who’s pretty blatantly flirting with an asshole in a trucker cap. “She’s a natural, watch-” Grantaire nods towards Cosette, who’s shoving Trucker Cap playfully, then smiling at him as he flexes his arm for her and she claps, apparently impressed. “Loose flirting, enough to get the guy interested and for him to think she’s tipsy and shit at pool. Then she’ll suggest a playful wager,” Cosette gives Trucker Cap a sly, mischievous smile, and slinks away from him to pick out a cue. “And say something like, ‘you win, you get my number, and maybe a bit more, and if  _I_  win- hmm, you give me- how much you got?” Grantaire says, and at the same time Trucker Cap pulls out his wallet and places a hundred dollar bill on the table. “Ooh, good mark, ‘sette. See, he wants to impress her by throwing money around. Now she’ll write down her number…” Cosette does so, and places it next to the hundred. “But it’s a fake. Usually she just writes down seven random numbers. And now, let the games begin.”

Trucker Cap breaks the triangle of balls that is somehow necessary for gameplay, and then Cosette, still giggling and swaying slightly, hits a few different balls in such a way that Trucker Cap’s jaw drops to the floor.

The games is over in a matter of minutes, three at most, and Cosette picks up the hundred between two delicate fingers and saunters back to them, as Trucker Cap stares at the pool table, jaw almost to the floor.

Grantaire doesn’t say anything, just high-fives Cosette with a smirk. She folds up the bill and hands it to Marius, who accepts it with an easy smile, then bumps Enjolras with her hip.

"Stop glaring at everything, you look like an angry weasel." She says, as Grantaire hands her a glass of water and she takes a drink. "Wanna learn to play?"

"I’m fine." Enjolras says, trying to keep the disdain out of his voice.

Cosette wiggles her eyebrows at him. “You sure? It’s easy- R’s a great teacher.”

Grantaire’s eyes widen and he pulls on her arm. “Okay, ‘sette, let’s leave the nice idealist alone, kay? Formation two?”

Cosette huffs, then presses a kiss to his cheek, before leaning in to whisper something fast and quiet into his ear. Grantaire flushes almost instantly at her words and Enjolras tries not to think about how fucking  _cute_  he is sometimes. “You-  _terrible_ -“

"I know, I know, I should be stopped." Cosette grins, before turning to Marius and inclining her head just the slightest. Marius nods and reaches out to squeeze her hand, just a little, and Cosette smiles softly at him, before she winks and saunters over to what Enjolras feels is safe to assume is Victim #2.

Enjolras turns to Grantaire again. “Formation two?”

"Uh, yeah." He says, throwing back another drink, of what Enjolras doesn’t know. His eyes slide to the left of Enjolras when he looks back to him, not quite meeting Enjolras’ eyes, and Enjolras doesn’t like it. "We’ve got about six of them." He shrugs, smiling weakly, and his eyes shift to look at the floor. "Doing it for a while, you know?"

 _Why won’t you just look at me?_  Enjolras thinks, before nodding. “It’s pretty impressive. Are you any good?”

Grantaire smirks, eyes meeting Enjolras’ right ear. “Very.”

"I should’ve figured, I guess. There’s not much you aren’t good at, after all." And  _there_ , if only for a second in shock, Grantaire’s eyes flick to him, widening, and Enjolras feels almost breathless, realising how much he’s _missed_  the way those blue eyes met his.

"You flatter me, my liege." Grantaire shakes his head and blushes, and his eyes look towards the ground.

"Don’t be annoying." Enjolras feels his eyes narrow at Grantaire. "I’ve asked you not to talk to me like I’m royalty."

Grantaire laughs softly. “Of course, your Enjolras-ness.” He glances back to Cosette, who’s trailing her finger down the chest of a distinctly dangerous-looking biker person. “Ugh, that girl does love to make my life more interesting, doesn’t she?” He sighs, and glances back at Enjolras. “Sorry, formation two is calling.” He glances towards Courfeyrac, who is ordering some off-color drink on his way back from the bathroom, then to Eponine. “You got this?”

Eponine grins. “It’s been too long, I think I forgot how.”

"Jeez-" Grantaire groans, and runs his hand through his hair with a wry grin. "Let’s hope for my sake that isn’t true." He nods to Courfeyrac as the man comes to stand by Eponine with a grin, then stumbles a little in his path towards Cosette.

"What’s my boy up to?" Courfeyrac asks, wrapping his arms around both Enjolras and Eponine’s shoulders.

"Playing drunk." Eponine says with a smile. "Well, the normal human-being equivalent of drunk, not the Grantaire drunk-off-his-ass-but-still-annoyingly-able-to-quote-classic-literature-at-you version."

"Ah." Courfeyrac says, and the four of them watch as Grantaire angrily shoves Biker Guy, and Cosette looks between them, obviously frightened. "Is that supposed to happen?"

"Of course." Eponine says with a grin, glancing to the side at Courfeyrac. "It’s formation two. Cosette is the playful, flirty girlfriend, Grantaire is the drunken jealous boyfriend who challenges whoever Cosette has been flirting with to a show of manliness, which is obviously pool. He’ll loose a few times before betting big money, and the other guy will think it’s an easy win. Anyone who accepts the- I dunno- gauntlet or whatever,  _has_  to be an asshole, to want to take advantage of someone that drunk and stupid, so you feel less bad about taking their money.” Eponine smiles. “Easy peasy. Now if you’ll excuse me, I have to get in position in case angry-buff-leather-guy decides to kick Grantaire’s ass.”

Courfeyrac gives her a little two-fingered salute and she walks over to the bar, directly between them and where Grantaire and Biker Guy are standing. She orders a drink but barely touches it, lifts it to her lips occasionally but never drinks from it. Enjolras turns his eyes away from her, watching as Grantaire stumbles over to the pool table, face flushed and leaning on the pool cue as he sways. Every time he leans over the table, however, he doesn’t falter at all- his movements are precised and controlled, and his expression is determined and focused. Swallowing with not a little difficulty, Enjolras turns to Courfeyrac, who’s watching Grantaire work with something akin to pride.

"Courf?" He says quietly, and the man turns to raise an eyebrow at him. "Don’t laugh."

Courfeyrac raises an eyebrow, understanding with an ease that comes from a lifetime of knowing each other. “Continue.”

Enjolras glances to Marius, who’s shuffling back and forth, eyes fixed on Cosette, before continuing. “How did you know Jehan was the one?”

He can tell from Courfeyrac’s expression that he knows exactly why Enjolras is asking, before the raised eyebrow and smirk shifts into a dreamily fond smile. “You mean other than the way my heart stopped every time I looked at him?” Enjolras nods, rolling his eyes at his best friend. “Well.” He sighs, and takes another drink with a dreamy smile still plastered on his face.

"Okay. So, this past summer, you know how we went home for dad’s birthday?" Enjolras nods. "Well, it was like somehow it got out that I’d be bringing my boyfriend along, and  _everyone_  wanted to meet him. Like, both sides of the family. At least a hundred members of my fucking family were there, just- waiting for us, like a pack of judgmental meerkats. It was a fucking  _trip_ , man.” Courfeyrac shakes his head, and sighs. “Dad didn’t fucking know what to do, that much was obvious. Here I was, the eldest child, pride of the family, dating a gringo femenino- I think his way of coping was to just pretend Jehan didn’t exist, honestly. But my  _mom_ , god, she took one look at him and  _knew_  he was fucked, that the family was going to give him as much shit as a Mexican/Jewish amalgamation could possibly dish out. Which is, you know, a  _lot_." Courfeyrac laughs not quite bitterly, and shakes his head. "She was trying  _so hard_ , you know? Like obviously she was still processing and trying to deal, but she linked arms with Jehan and personally introduced him to every member of the family, daring them to say shit to him. And, as you well know, for a five foot two housemom, my mom is terrifying when she wants to be.” He laughs, and smiles fondly. “It was such a relief, you know? That she didn’t know what to think of Jehan, but was as protective of him as she’d ever been of me, because she knew he was important to me.”

Enjolras nods slowly, a little confused. “And that’s how you knew?”

"Nah, that’s the backstory." Courfeyrac says, with a slight smirk. "So, I find Jehan, leaning against my old tree house tree, basically the most sacred place of my childhood, alone, as my fucking cousin Marcos is asking him these inane, idiotic questions. Like who’s the fucking girl in the relationship, has he ever tried being straight, does he realize what the bible says about gays, has he tried finding a cure for his disease and Jehan- he’s just taking it all. Answering every fucking question calmly, like they’re discussing the weather." Courfeyrac glares at his drink as he takes a long gulp of it, then sighs. "So I go over, asking what the fuck is going on, and Jehan glares at me.  _Me_.He says they’re just talking, right? And Marcos just nods, grinning at me as if this is all payback- probably was, I did sleep with his girlfriend that one time- but I did  _not_  know she was his girlfriend, so that’s his issue, not mine- not my fault he’s a fucker who no one in their right mind would-” Enjolras raises an eyebrow and Courfeyrac blushes. “Sorry. Anyway, I’m about three seconds from bruising my fist on Marcos’ face, and Jehan drags me away, acting like  _I’m_  the villain.” He shakes his head fondly. “And I’m up in his face, asking why the everliving  _fuck_ is he putting up with that shit- I mean, he’s kicked the crap out of people for saying shit half as offensive as what Marcos was.”

"And Jehan- he just- looks me straight in the eye, and says, in the most terrifying Jehan voice I’ve ever heard, ‘Courf, your mother is trying  _so fucking hard_  to make this okay. To keep the peace when obviously no one here likes me. Not sure if you can tell, but she’s  _terrified_  that something’s going to happen that will separate her son from the rest of his family. Your cousin is an ignorant piece of shit, I get that. And normally, I’d be bringing down Enjolras-level wrath on him. But I swear to god, if you start a fight today, and break your mother’s heart, this relationship will end. You got me?’.” Courfeyrac leans further back against the counter. “So he- the man who is banned for life from several churches in the area for telling off homophobic priests in the middle of sermons, was putting up with all this shit because my mom wouldn’t be able to deal with my family hating him, or me.” He grins, then. “I mean, about twenty minutes later he was talking to Marcos’ girlfriend, asking if she was really satisfied with the relationship and her sex life, the passive-aggressive bastard. But anyway, I looked at him as he was threatening to dump me for fucking up all of my mom’s work, and I just thought-  _damn. I’m gonna marry this man._ " Courfeyrac finishes with a fond grin, shrugging at Enjolras.

Enjolras nods, smiling, because he can imagine Jehan saying all of that with perfect clarity. “And that was it for you?”

"Well that and the fact that he matched mi padre cerveza por cerveza later that evening." Courfeyrac says, grinning.

"Damn." Enjolras whistles, impressed, because Courfeyrac’s dad, as well as his aptly named ‘drinking buddies’, drink like it’s an Olympic sport. "And- how did you know- at the beginning? That you wanted to be more than friends?"

Courfeyrac laughs softly, smiling fondly at Enjolras. “So many questions, Enj.” He leans back and closes his eyes, silent for a couple seconds, so long that Enjolras wonders if maybe he isn’t going to actually answer, before he says, slowly and softly, “He’d whistle Hedwig’s theme from Harry Potter sometimes. Like when he was making tea or looking for a book in the library.” He says simply, eyes still closed, and doesn’t elaborate further.

Enjolras raises an eyebrow. “That’s it?”

Courferyac shrugs in response, pausing again. “Well, I thought to myself, ‘ _self, there’s really nothing you’d like more than to see him in your boxers and old t-shirt, making tea and whistling Hedwig’s theme, before dragging him back to bed with you_ ’. It wasn’t really a life-changing revelation, Enj.” Courfeyrac says, poking him in the nose softly with a smile. “Sometimes, when the right person comes along, you don’t need anything life-changing.” He glances back to Grantaire, who catches their eye and winks at the two of them with a smirk.  ”Sometimes it just takes the tiniest thing to make you realise you are utterly, and completely, fucked.”

"Oh." Enjolras says quietly, looking back to Grantaire, who seems to have lost yet another game, as he stumbles angrily and challenges (very loudly, Enjolras notices) the Biker Guy to a real game, a high-stakes match.

Courfeyrac  wraps an arm around Enjolras’ shoulder comfortingly and silently, because that’s the kind of friend he is. He lays his head on Enjolras’ shoulder and says, so quietly it barely counts as a whisper, ‘it’s okay to be afraid of these things, you know’, and Enjolras doesn’t respond, just fixes his eyes on Grantaire as the man plays pool with a skill he’s willing to bet few others posses.

Grantaire is- well, he’s very wrong for Enjolras. They argue constantly, and the man infuriates him to end- but you’d have to be blind not to see that. What most people don’t see is the way they work together- before, when they were-  _involved_ , they worked together. He was comfortable with Grantaire, with the  way the other man would slouch across his couch and bicker with him gently, strengthening Enjolras’ arguments by picking out the faults. On the precious few occasions they actually  _slept_  together after sleeping together, Enjolras found that their bodies just kind of fit together naturally, and he loved the way Grantaire looked as he slowly woke up. Obviously, it was eventually Grantaire who decided that they would never, could never, work as a couple, who fought Enjolras when he wanted to have a legitimate relationship, and then moved to fucking  _California_ , so Enjolras can understand how the other man seems so at ease with their transition back to just being friends, when Enjolras dies a little every time he sees him. Not to be melodramatic, obviously.

But- well, c’mon. How could you  _not_  be at least a little in love with Grantaire? Enjolras glances to where the man is thoroughly destroying Biker Guy, who is getting more and more furious with every shot, at pool. Grantaire is- well, he’s so incredibly talented. His art is spectacular, striking and real and incredibly colored. He can fence, and box, and dances incredibly. He plays the guitar, is apparently flawless when it comes to pool, and can quote classic literature and identify different translations of classic works by the phrasing of some sentences. And he’s kind- he volunteers with youth centers, teaching little kids to play instruments and helping them with their homework, and, even though he’s never told any of them that he does this, Enjolras only happened on him once on his way back home from the city library, he sometimes sits and plays his guitar and sings on street corners, and gives whatever money he collects to the homeless.

And- well, that’s not even counting all the things Eponine told him about, the things he’s done for her, some of which Enjolras couldn’t forget if he tried.

And Enjolras knows Grantaire isn’t happy with the way he looks- he makes fun of his large, crooked nose, the scars on his face and his deep-set eyes, his less-than chiseled jaw and the splotches on his stomach. The way his two front teeth hang down lower than the others, or his slightly crooked smile.

Though, if you were to ask Enjolras, and maybe he was somehow forced to tell the truth or you got him really, _really_  drunk,  he’d tell you those were the things he liked most.

Grantaire’s finished the match, obviously, as he grins at Biker Guy and thanks him for the game. Cosette slips behind the two of them and collects the money, fast and effortlessly, so none of the Biker Guy’s attention is focused on her action, then flutters back to where the three of them are waiting. She leans against the bar next to Marius and hands him two hundred dollar bills, and he whistles appreciatively. “Good night for pool hustling, I suppose?”

Cosette nods, and smiles at him, pressing a slow kiss to his cheek. “Though this might be the last one, Macho Man over there seems  _pissed_.” She sends a significant glance to Eponine, who moves a bit closer to them as Grantaire saunters away from Biker Guy.

Enjolras feels himself blush at the satisfied smirk Grantaire gives all of them,  as he stops in front of Cosette and says, “So. Odds that guy comes back to beat the everliving shit out of me?”

"Well." Cosette says, with a look of concentration. "I’m absolutely positive he’ll come back to  _try_.”

Grantaire grins appreciatively at her, then calls, offhandedly, “See? That’s how you provide moral support.” to which Eponine snorts into her drink and mutters, ‘fuck you, I’m supportive’.

"Hey!" A booming voice calls, and Grantaire spins around to see Biker Guy, flanked by three other equally-tough looking leather-clad tough-guys. "I think I want my money back."

"Well shit." Grantaire says quietly, as Eponine moves to stand next to him, looking much too happy about the way things have progressed. "Courf?"

"Yeah?" Courfeyrac says meekly, placing his empty glass down on the bar’s surface.

"Keep Enjolras from doing anything stupid, will you?" He says, taking off his jacket and placing it on the bar next to him. "I think you’ll have to come and take it." He calls loudly, and Enjolras can just sense the lifetime ban, multiple head injuries, and possible broken bones Grantaire’s going to receive before they get out of here.

Yes, Grantaire is many things. He is smart, talented, kind, and unconventionally attractive. He is funny and strong and infuriating, and protective and loyal and definitively the source of all of Enjolras’ sexual frustration.

However, at this moment, he is also a dead man.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry for the delay i know i am terrible


	17. In Formal Wear

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> enjolras and grantaire are dumb this is common knowledge

"Hurry it up, will you?"

"Shut the fuck up I hurry for no one."

Grantaire laughs and shakes his head, before pulling out his laptop and opening his email. Fighting the urge to tuck his feet under him in the familiarly comfortable position (can’t be messing up the pants, can he?), he scans the account for the two or three emails not trying to sell him something. Opening an email from Eponine, he brightens instantly and calls out to his boyfriend, “Hey, Eponine says they’ve finally decided on a date for the wedding!”

"Yes, I know." Enjolras says, emerging finally from the bathroom, wearing pretty much the best pants on the face on the earth; perfectly fitted and creased and black and just tight enough- just,  _wow_. Grantaire makes a mental note to give Emi three thank you cards and a fruit basket for the clothing she’s provided- and then six more apologies for later tonight when he will, no doubt, rip the clothes while trying to get them off Enjolras as quickly as humanly possible. “Combeferre sent me a message about it. Our invitations will be arriving in four to six days.”

"Show off." Grantaire grumbles, as Enjolras steps over to examine his reflection in the mirrors that cover the doors of the bedroom closet, which Grantaire is pretty sure is bigger than the living room was in his first apartment. Enjolras must be thinking along those lines as well, because he frowns and says, "I hate this hotel room."

"I know." He chuckles, because he’s heard nothing but this rant since they were invited on this trip.

"It’s such a waste of money- I mean, there is a  _fountain_  in the main room. A fountain! Under what circumstances is a fucking fountain  _ever_  necessary in a hotel room?” Enjolras cries, making little erratic gestures with his hands.

"I know." Grantaire shakes his head and puts a mocking tone in his voice as he stares at Enjolras sadly. "Fucking capitalism, man."

"And entitled rich assholes-" Enjolras glances back at Grantaire, and sighs. "You’re loving this, aren’t you?"

Grantaire beams. “Hell fucking yes I am. I feel like royalty.” Enjolras makes a face at his words, and Grantaire smirks back at him. “Sorry, sorry, I mean, down with the monarchy and extravagant spending and the room fees that are large enough to feed a poor family for a month.” He grins, and leans back on his elbows on the bed, wiggling his eyebrows suggestively. “But, I mean, we did put the room-sized bath to good use, yeah?”

Enjolras blushes and turns away, and Grantaire’s not sure if he’ll ever be accustomed to the look of bashfulness on their fearless leader’s face. He clears his throat, runs a hand through his perfectly tussled hair that’s actually been cut stylistically, instead of the monthly ‘trimming’ by Combeferre (again, thank you Emi), and huffs at his reflection. “I could pretend to be sick.”

"No."

Enjolras’ voice raises a little casually. “Hit by a car?”

"Absolutely not."

"Fell off the roof."

Grantaire raises an eyebrow. “And how, exactly, will we explain  _how_  you got onto the roof? And why you fell off? Or the fact that you’re still  _alive_  when Emi sees you next?”

"I-" Enjolras’ face falls, and he makes a face at Grantaire in the mirror. "I was just thinking aloud." He grumbles, adjusting the collar of his suitjacket. "You have no idea how much I’d like to not have to go tonight."

"God-  _Enjolras_.” Grantaire barely- just barely- resists the instinct to run his hands through his (painstakingly styled) hair, instead opting to rub the palms of his hands against his eyelids. Enjolras turns to face him, raising his eyebrow in a silent challenge. “Emi has graciously secured things so we get an all expense paid - and that, mind you, is a hell of an expense - trip to  _Paris_ , in which we stay in a hotel whose daily rate is more than my first two apartment’s monthly rent  _combined_. And, I might add, she was incredibly pleasant to you for a woman you once called vapid, entitled, and on the same skill level as a trained monkey.”

Enjolras blushes irritably and raises his finger as if to argue, but Grantaire ignores him.

“All she asks is that we go to one -  _one_  - show with her. We get dressed all fancy like with clothes made of clouds and happiness, sit down with celebrities, and get free food fit for royalty. Most people would  _kill_  for this opportunity.” He finishes, throwing a significant glance towards Enjolras, who rolls his eyes and turns away, eyes scanning the floor (most likely for his phone, which he can never seem to keep track of).

"Yeah, well." Enjolras shrugs, looking like the petulant child Grantaire knows him to be. "I’m not most people."

Grantaire scoffs, lurching to his feet and stretching his neck from side to side. “Tell me something I don’t know.” He sighs and crosses over to stand next to his boyfriend. “It’s one fashion show, Enjolras. Surely you can survive one fashion show,” His face falls, his eyes drop to the floor, and his voice is small as he says, “In the interest of making me happy?”

Enjolras gives a snort of derision, and  _dammit, that used to work so well_. Enjolras always was a sucker for a the guilt trip- but it seems now he’s built up an immunity. Bastard. “God,” He drawls, closing his eyes as if pained. “Why couldn’t you have brought Cosette, or Jehan, or someone who gets along with both your sister  _and_  fashion, instead of me, who has a rough history with  _both_?”

Grantaire raises an eyebrow, and takes care to say his next words very slowly and simply, because it really should be obvious. “Because I’m in love with  _you_ _._ " He pulls on Enjolras’ little finger, turning the blond around to face him. "I’m not bringing anyone else with me to the most romantic city on earth, no matter how much you may currently be bitching."

Enjolras smirks slightly, and Grantaire knows he’s won. That little side-smile of Enjolras’ is his way of admitting defeat, and it’s a damn good thing too, because Grantaire was about three minutes away from fireman-carrying the idiot to the show. “The most romantic city on earth, huh?” Enjolras says quietly, stepping a little close to Grantaire.

"Yeah, well," Grantaire shrugs, threading his arm around Enjolras’ waist as the blond moves his hand to rest on Grantaire’s hip. "For most people, I’d say they’d fall in love with the romantic cafes, the exquisite cuisine, the gorgeous scenery-" He chuckles, tucking back a yellow-white curl. "For you, I just kinda figured some historical revolution-type sites would get you all hot and bothered, so I did some Googling."

Enjolras laughs, his weird little half-giggle half-cackle thing he does, and shakes his head. “See, that actually sounds nice.” He presses a slow kiss to Grantaire’s lips, smiling into it as he does. “Instead of watching skeleton people with scary eyes model various outfits while surrounded by-” And at this, he actually  _shudders_ \- “Celebrities.”

"Oi," Grantaire says, feigning offense as Enjolras lazily traces the length of his arm, a habit of the blond’s Grantaire really enjoys, and narrows his eyes. "That’s my baby sister you’re talking about."

"Oh, well she’s great, obviously." Enjolras stutters to correct the statement, and Grantaire shakes his head fondly. "I like her music. Occasionally."

"Liar." Grantaire whispers accusingly, but with a smile. "Oh, that reminds me," He says, pulling away from Enjolras who whines a little at the loss of contact, which is probably one of the cutest things Grantaire will ever see in his entire life. "Meve texted, she wants Emi’s autograph and, if we can, Scarlett Johansson, so I’ve gotta add those to the list." He grabs the little moleskin book from the coffee table and scribbles in Meve’s request next to the other autographs they’ve been instructed (on pain of death) to bring back (requests include Rihanna, Hugh Dancy, Lana Del Rey, Anne Hathaway, Florence Welch, Katy Perry, Kiera Knightley, Dan Smith, P!nk, any member of One DIrection - from Gavroche, who sternly refuses to explain why - and Beyoncé. In fact- they all requested Beyoncé).

Enjolras pouts a little in irritation as Grantaire places the book in his coat pocket. “Why is Magdalena talking to  _you_?”

"I think you’ll find she’s  _texting_  me." Grantaire says with a smirk, but Enjolras seems thoroughly unamused. He shrugs. "Not my fault your sister likes me better." Enjolras grimaces, and Grantaire provides helpfully, "Might have something to do with the fact that she’s asked you at least thirty times to just shut up and call her Meve."

Enjolras rolls his eyes. “That’s not even a real name.”

Turning to glare at his boyfriend, Grantaire sighs exasperatedly. “You go by your last name, why can’t she go by her initials?” He pulls his coat over his shoulder and raises an eyebrow. “You’ve gotta admit, ‘Meve’ is a hell of a lot better than Magdelena Euphoria Vivian Enjolras.”

Enjolras opens and closes his mouth a couple of times, as if trying to come up with an argument. “It’s not that bad. Some people have it worse.”

Grantaire grins. “Yeah, you would know.”

Enjolras’ head snaps up as he begins to lift his own coat over his shoulder. “Shut up.”

Grantaire adjusts his shirt in the mirror, calling off-handedly, “I get it now, though, I always wondered what kind of pretentious asshole went by ‘Enjolras’ instead of their own name, but now I get it, I mean, it’s much better than-” Grantaire begins, but is cut off by Enjolras grabbing his arm and flipping him around, shoving him backwards into the mirror. It should be pretty obvious what this does to Grantaire.

"Are you quite finished?" Enjolras half-hisses, half-whispers, as he towers over Grantaire near-menacingly.

Grantaire, incapable of coherent thought as he is, can’t help but laugh and say, “Seriously? You’ve got me pressed against a wall, looking for all the world like classy sex, and the best line you can come up with is ‘are you quite finished’?” He shakes his head, smiling fondly. “Honestly, sometimes I wonder how I find you sexy at all.”

Enjolras narrows his eyes and pushes his body against Grantaire’s, then tilts his head down to mouth along Grantaire’s next, breath warm and soft against his skin.

"Oh." Grantaire breathes, head instinctively tilting back to give Enjolras better access as the blond bites the skin under his ear teasingly. "Right. That’s how."

Enjolras moves down, licking a path down Grantaire’s throat and biting the edge of his jaw, then letting his teeth drag slowly down the sensitive (and a little ticklish) skin of his neck.

"Jesu-" Grantaire begins, as his head bangs against the mirror and then lowers down to look at Enjolras, who grins at him, feigning innocence. "So help me, if you don’t kiss me right the fuck now-"

Enjolras just rolls his eyes and smiles, cupping Grantaire’s jaw and kissing him as he presses him even further against the wall. His tongue slides between Grantaire’s lips and Grantaire sucks it in further. Enjolras’ hands undo the buttons of Grantaire’s shirt as they breathe into each other’s mouths, then he pulls away and begins pushing Grantaire’s coat off his shoulders. “God, why don’t you wear tailored suits more often?” He near growls, throwing the heavy black coat god-knows-where, before raking his eyes up Grantaire.

"Um, because they usually cost more than I could make in a month?" Grantaire whimpers, as Enjolras eyes him like an animal regards its prey. He pulls off his own coat, throwing it to the side, and Grantaire vaguely registers the thump of something probably vintage and priceless being knocked off a table, but he  _really really does not fucking care at the moment,_ because Enjolras’ mouth is on his again and he’s wrapping a leg around Grantaire, who instinctively lifts Enjolras up (he weighs all of ten pounds, the twiggy fucker) and re-positions them both so he’s holding Enjolras up against the wall as Enjolras wraps both legs around Grantaire’s waist and then they’re kissing again, rough and deliberate and only encouraged by the formal wear they’re currently wrinkling.

They’re still kissing against the mirror when Grantaire’s phone starts ringing. Grantaire laughs at the noise that breaks him out of Enjolras-driven trance, and pulls away from the kiss. “My phone’s ringing.”

Enjolras huffs, and leans down to kiss him again, whispering, “No it’s not.”

"It really is though." Grantaire says, as Enjolras begins to kiss him again, just as eagerly, as Grantaire tries to lower him back to the floor.

"No it’s not." Enjolras hums between slow kisses, then takes Grantaire’s bottom lip between his teeth and sucks on it, and Grantaire goes weak at the knees which is, you know, not good when you are  _holding someone up_.

Grantaire sets him down on the floor but Enjolras doesn’t let go of him, but instead begins kissing Grantaire’s neck again, biting the newly exposed collarbone. Grantaire, because he is in control of his own mind and powers of speech and coherent thought, god _dammit,_  mutters, “Okay, yeah, sure, the radio just happened to turn on and the Bad Horse theme just happened to be playing on- hnn-” Grantaire is cut off by Enjolras grinding,  _hard_ , against him, but manages to continue in a sort of strained whimper, “-a french radio station.”

"Sounds about right to me." Enjolras mutters into Grantaire’s skin, tongue tracing the words of the tattoo on Grantaire’s left shoulder.

The ringing begins again, and Grantaire groans, out of exasperation and- other things. “It’s probably my sister. You know, who paid for us to stay in Paris for  _two weeks_.”

Enjolras hums. “She  leave without us, we’ll catch up.”

Wait- oh that  _fucker_. Grantaire holds out a hand, pushing Enjolras away sternly but not quite forcefully. “You’re trying to distract me.”

Enjolras’ eyes widen, and a sheepish smile flickers across his face. “Am not.”

"You sneaky fuck." Grantaire shakes his head, but grins nonetheless. "We’re going, and you are going to pretend you like my sister and tell her she looks amazing in whatever dress they put her in and compliment her latest music video and  _pretend to have a good time.”_ He takes a step closer and adjusts Enjolras collar before beginning to attempt to fix the mess he’s made of his boyfriend’s hair. He leans in to whisper in Enjolras’ ear, “And, if you behave, after the fashion show we can test the structural integrity of every surface in this hotel room.”

Enjolras’ eyes widen a little further and he lets out a rough, ragged breath. “That-” He huffs, and a red blush spreads over his cheek. “You’re not playing fair.”

Grantaire laughs and reaches down to grab his phone from the floor (which, yep, has two missed calls from Emi). “Yeah, well, I fucking learned from the best.” Enjolras makes a face at that as he leans down to grab his coat, and Grantaire scoffs. “Oh don’t think for a second I’m talking about you. No this is purely Eponine and Cosette’s influence, thank you  _very much_.”

Enjolras huffs and tosses Grantaire his black coat. “I hate you a lot sometimes, you know.”

"But you still love me?" Grantaire says, making a little pout towards Enjolras as he stands in front of the man and lifts his coat over his shoulders for the second time in about fifteen minutes.

Enjolras sighs, then with an exasperated shake of his head, mutters, “Always.” And pulls Grantaire in for one last, soft (much shorter) kiss.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> okay so my life has been about twelve different kinds of hectic and just to make up for it I have made this chapter a two-parter with two different pairings
> 
> and i'm going to try and update more often i promise


	18. In Formal Wear (bonus interlude!)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> eponine and combeferre have an interlude

"What are you doing?" Eponine near-barks as she enters Combeferre’s room, a half-eaten cookie in her hand, looking scandalized and more than a little frustrated. She’s got a smatter of crumbs under the left side of her lip, and that little adorableness mixed with the harshness of her gaze and the way her dress for the fundraiser clings easily to her every curve make for an odd but altogether attractive mixture (then again, he does have a tendency to find everything about Eponine attractive, so maybe he’s a little biased).

Combeferre glances at her sheepishly, and apologetically, but honestly, it’s not his fault his idiot of a best friend obsesses over every tiny minuscule detail. “Sorry, I know, I got distracted, Enjolras kept texting me-“

Eponine silences him with a flitty wave of her hand (a signal for him to shut up, shut up now, shut up if he knows what’s good for him). “I told you I wanted to tie your tie.”

Combeferre glances down at the thin, dark fabric between his fingers, then back at Eponine, brow furrowed in confusion. “I thought you were joking.”

"Nuh-uh." She says with a narrowing of the eyebrows, then strides across the room to stand in front of him. "I want to do it."

"Why?"

Eponine huffs as she does a little nervous two-step in her unnecessarily tall heels (almost seven inches; he doesn’t know how the hell she manages to walk in them). “Well, okay, you know how in all those stupid romantic comedies Marius forces people to watch there will be that scene where the guy is putting on the tie and can’t manage it so the girl does it for him and then uses it to pull him into a kiss and it’s all romantic and shit? Well,” She shrugs, looking at him expectantly.

"But-" Combeferre shakes his head fondly, then says slowly, "I know how to tie a necktie. I do it pretty much every day of my life."

"It’s the principle of the thing, Ferre, now hand it over." Eponine pouts a little and Combeferre reluctantly gives in, pulling the end of the tie so it falls off his shoulder and handing it to his girlfriend. "Thank you." She chirps, then he leans down so she can lay the material over his shoulders. She pulls at the end of it with a determined gaze, then pulls at the other end, then wraps the tail around, then puts it back.

This goes on for a couple minutes before Combeferre looks down at her and asks slowly, “Is it meant to take this long?”

"Shut your face, I’m working on it."

"Ahh, what romance." Combeferre says dryly and wistfully, looking up at the ceiling. "Be still my beating heart."

"Shut  _up_ , Combeferre.” Eponine says, fumbling with the tie further. “I haven’t tied a tie since, like, Grantaire’s fucking highschool graduation, okay? Gimme a second.”

Combeferre sighs and lets her continue trying to work out the precise function of a necktie, before saying, “Are you positive we can’t just skip to the kissing part? That sounded fun.”

Eponine scoffs. “Just kissing, without a romantic interlude beforehand?” She glances up at him sadly and sticks out her bottom lip. “Why do you hate romance?” She says slowly and desperately, as if bemoaning her fate to the gods.

Combeferre rolls his eyes. “Yes, because kissing isn’t romantic at all.”

"Barbarian." Eponine says, in a accusing tone.

"Fairy-tale chaser."

Eponine gasps, and puts a hand to her heart. “That shit cuts deep, Ferre.”

"It was meant to." He replies, then checks his watch. "In case you were wondering, we were supposed to leave three minutes ago."

"Fucking fuckity fuckerton." Eponine huffs, staring at the two ends of the tie she’s holding in her hands like she’d very much like to light them on fire.

Combeferre smiles down at her. “You know, I don’t think I’ve ever been more attracted to anyone who swears this much like a sailor.”

Eponine grins at him. “Oh really?”

"Really." He smiles down at her. "I mean, actual sailors, of course- there was this one guy, used to come to the docks,  _covered_  in tattoos, could lift three hundred pounds right over his head-” He says teasingly, and Eponine laughs and pushes his chest softly, rolling her eyes. Combeferre catches her hand and holds it there, reaching for the other.

"Here," He says softly, leading her fingers around the tie, going through the motions for a half-windsor, all the while his eyes not leaving hers. Her soft, warm hands still under his, allowing themselves to be led around the soft, thin fabric of the necktie, chosen because it matches the precise dark green of Eponine’s dress. His hands still as he finishes, but he doesn’t let go of her hands, electing instead to how them gently in his as he mutters, "A perfect knot. We can pretend you did it."

Eponine glances down to check it with a smile, and he lets go of her left hand, raising up two gentle fingers to the underside of her jaw, and leading her gaze upwards. She raises an eyebrow at him almost challengingly.

"If you don’t mind, I’ll be skipping to the kissing part now." He says slowly, and catches the quick flicker her eyes make to his lips.

“ _Bastard_.” She whispers through her smirk, as he leans down and makes good on his word.

(And, in case you were wondering; they leave only ten minutes late, a personal best for Eponine and not in the least the latest she’s ever made Combeferre.)


	19. Dancing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> a first date

"No- don’t- I- I can get it."

Cosette frowns. “Um, the door?”

"Yeah." Marius says, pushing his own car door out. "It’s just polite, really!" He cries, closing the door behind him and shuffling around the car to her side.

Cosette, hands frozen on the door handle, mutters to herself, “Even when I’m the one driving…?” She shakes her head and opens the door, and outside, Marius freezes with a distraught expression on his face as she climbs out of her baby blue VW beetle (a sixteenth birthday present from her Papa), then shrugs on her sweater, shivering slightly in the cool night air.

"You-" Marius stutters, shuffling from foot to foot in an awkward two-step, then clears his throat and glances at her with a strange determination. "Do you want my coat?"

Cosette smiles understandingly. “Nah, I’m good. Wouldn’t want you getting cold, after all.”

"Bu-" Marius blushes, staring at her a bit like a deer in headlights, then seems to mentally shake himself. "Thank you, Cosette."

"No problem," She smiles, locking the doors and looking back to Marius.

"Alright, Pontmercy. Lead the way."

He gives her a slight, dazed smile and shuffles around her awkwardly, moving his arms up and down in jutting motions as if he’s not quite sure if he should try to link them with her own. Cosette takes pity on the flailing man and links her arm through his, giving him a slight smile as she does so. They’re parked at the edge of a little park, glowing blue with dim light shimmering out of the lamp-posts, and he leads her through the parking lot to a darkened playground at the edge of it, then coughs nervously.

"I know dates are supposed to be dinner and a movie," He explains, as he lets go of her arm. "But, you know, a couple months ago you were talking about liking unorthodox dates and, well, I used to come here all the time when I was a kid so I thought- maybe, uh- you’d like it." He finishes lamely, shrugging as Cosette releases his arm with a fond smile.

Cosette looks up at him, his dark brown eyes looking at her hopefully, and reconsiders some of her opinions of Marius. She hasn’t told anyone, not even Grantaire, but she’d seen Marius before she met a single Amis, when she’d been on college visits with her Papa. He’d been a freshman at the time, and she’d been taking a tour of the art department when suddenly the door had opened and in had rushed the most attractive man she’d ever seen (okay, yes, she had gone to an all-girls school, but still), and all he did was ask the tour guide if he had seen a ‘floppy haired sex addict running about’ and give a quick wave to Cosette’s group, but that was all it had taken for her to fall madly in love.

Obviously, that had been during (what she fondly referred to as) her ‘fuck the patriarchy, fuck societal norms, fuck the whole planet’ faze, in which she almost gave herself lung-cancer by taking up smoking, wore only over-alls and leather jackets, and dyed her hair jet black and wore it in tight dreadlocks (she has, since then, realized that you can be a feminist _without_  acting like a bitter member of a motorcycle gang, and embraced the flowers-and-happiness side of herself), so she was a bit resistant to the whole love-at-first-sight thing. Then she was accepted into the university, stopped ripping up all of her clothing and telling small children that Santa Claus was a capitalist invention designed to brainwash children into being slaves to societal views of ‘good’, and began brushing her hair again. She saw Marius around campus from time to time, usually being dragged around by a man who, she assumed, was the floppy-haired sex addict, but settled for pining from afar until, halfway through the year, she met Grantaire, and he introduced her to Les Amis.

The first time she spoke to Marius she knew, without a doubt, that he was a useless doof.

He tripped over a chair, called her Colette, and sauntered out of the room without looking twice at her.

Then came the booth incident, and the subsequent Marius Searches For The Girl of His Dreams While She Sits Down the Table From Him Every Tuesday and Thursday Night incident (all two weeks of it), and then this- date. Thing. Which is… decent. He’s a bit old-fashioned, which is probably appealing to certain types of girls (not really Cosette types, sorry Marius), and a bit too twitchy around her for her to relax but, hey, at least he’s payed attention to her, to have thought of a date location like this.

"Oh, god, I had forgotten I said that," Cosette chuckles softly, twirling the end of a thick strand of her yellow-orange hair around her index and middle fingers idly.

Marius nods. “Yeah, remember? Courf almost spilled his latte over Combeferre’s notes, right before Bahorel and Enjolras started arguing about sex in the media and movie ratings.” He smiles, and they begin walking in the direction of the playground. “Joly was wearing his new black and yellow striped sweater.”

Oh.

Guess he just pays attention to  _everything_ , then.

 _Good_.

"Oh, right, obviously." Cosette laughs awkwardly, nods, and looks around, before leaning in to Marius. "Marius," She whispers, beckoning him in closer. She lifts her mouth to the space beside his ear and whispers, softly and slowly, "Race you to the swingset." Then bolts toward the structure, scarf flapping in the cool November air.

She reaches the swingset ages before Marius does, and laughs at the determined way he sprints towards the swings and leaps forward onto the one next to her, belly-first. He lands with a pained grunt on the swing, which lurches uncomfortably.

"Cheater." Marius wheezes breathlessly, as he twists around to sit up in the swing.

She just sticks her tongue out at him and begins pushing herself back and forth in the swing, kicking her legs out and relishing the cool bursts of air blowing at her tangle of burnt orange hair. He shuffles back and forth awkwardly, pushing himself quietly without moving too much, and finally Cosette realizes she’s ignoring him in favor of swinging like a seven-year-old, and slows to a stop beside him.

"Tell me something." Cosette says easily as the swing slows to a halt, leaning towards him as her fingers wrap around the chains of the swing.

"Something." He says with a smirk, and Cosette shoves at his swing with exasperated fondness, rolling her eyes.

"Shut up, you know what I mean."

Marius grins and digs his feet into the sand, pushing himself slowly back, then swinging forward. “Tell you what?”

"Dunno." Cosette says softly, leaning against the cool metal chain of the swing. "Something I don’t know about you." Marius purses his lips in thought, and Cosette knows the moment he’s thought of something because his face flushes red and his eyes flicker to the ground. "Ooh, you’ve got something. Let’s hear it."

Marius sighs, then looks around nervously, apparently suspicious that Courfeyrac has somehow infiltrated the dark empty park and is just lying in wait to find out Marius’ deepest, most intimate secrets. He leans in, and Cosette follows as Marius whispers, “I’m terrified of marching bands.”

See?

That’s  _precisely_  why Cosette can’t figure out how she feels about Marius.

Most guys, hell, every guy Cosette has ever been with, would have said something about their dick length, or their motorcycle, or told her an interesting (read: 90 - 100% bullshit) story of how he got one of his scars. But  _no_ , Marius Pontmercy goes for ‘terrified of marching bands’. Cosette raises an eyebrow. “ _Marching Bands_?” She says incredulously.

Marius laughs and blushes a little more as he pulls away. “Yeah, I know it sounds crazy but- okay, they’re loud, like obnoxiously so, and  _suspiciously_  organized, and like- okay, I can’t even read music, or walk in a straight line most of the time, and somehow these people manage to read music and play it  _while_  marching in perfectly synchronized formations. It’s just not natural.” He shakes his head then pauses, shrugging sheepishly. “Might also have something to do with that time I was in the marching band in ninth grade and the jerks in the drums section locked me in a tuba case and forgot about me.”

"Oh my god!" Cosette’s hand flies to her mouth in shock (and a little bit to hide her laughter, because  _of course_  Marius would get locked in a tuba case at least once in his life). “For how long?”

"Oh, only about four hours. The janitor let me out eventually."

Cosette shakes her head, laughing softly at the nonchalant way Marius states these things, like they’re discussing the weather rather than being shoved into a small inclosed space and being left there for hours on end. “What instrument did you play?” Cosette says finally, when she’s done giggling into her hand.

"Trumpet." He says,with a grin. "And no man or woman in all of recorded time ever has played or ever will play an instrument as terribly as I played my Gertrude."

“ _Gertrude_?”

Marius raises an eyebrow. “Well, she had to have a name, didn’t she?”

Cosette laughs, shaking her head fondly. “Fair enough.”

"Okay." Marius kicks at the edge of her swing a little, and she swings slightly to the side. "Your turn. Tell me something," His voice lowers. "Secret."

"Urm.." Cosette’s fingers tap idly against the chain. "Oh, uh, I went to an all-girls catholic school all my life. …before here, obviously."

"Pff," Marius rolls his eyes. "I’ve known that for ages, since Grantaire and Bahorel started making Catholic school girl jokes."  
Cosette makes a face at him. “Fine, uh- oh! Okay, back home, I have two horses-“

"Olympe and Calliope." Marius interrupts, still grinning. "C’mon, ‘sette. Don’t be boring."

She huffs and sticks out her bottom lip in a pronounced pout. “Okay, well, it’s hard to tell people something they don’t know about you when you’ve known them for months.” Cosette complains, digging her heels into the sand. “And what you didn’t know already I told you in the booth, so-“

"Oh c’mon." Marius rolls his eyes. "It doesn’t have to be big. It just has to be  _something_.”

“ _Urgh_.” Cosette grunts, exasperated. “Okay, okay,  _fine_.” She takes a breath, thinking of one of the few things she knows with a certainty she’s never told Marius, or anyone, about. “Remember when Combeferre made us all go to that concert in the park, and everyone started slow dancing, and R taught me how to waltz?” Marius hums in agreement, and she continues. “Well, okay. This is really dumb, but we were sitting on that bench and you were shuffling, and I- well, I thought you might want to dance with me. And, you know, Eponine dragged you out to dance with her, which was hilarious and all but- I dunno.” She shrugs and looks down at her hands. “I thought it would’ve been fun, to dance with you. It’s stupid-“

Marius cuts her off with muffled laughter, and Cosette looks up, startled, to see him giggling softly into his hand. That- oh, okay. So she tells him something secret and a bit embarrassing, and he  _laughs_  at her? She’s a bit concerned she might actually  _loathe_  Marius Pontmercy. Cosette raises an eyebrow at Marius, who blushes and takes a breath.

"That’s-" He starts, chuckling softly. "I really wanted to  _ask_  you to dance.” Marius beams at her. “I was worried you’d think I was a freak. Also that I might step on your feet.”

"Oh." Cosette says, trying to suppress her smile, and says quietly, "Well, that’s something I didn’t know about you. You’re good at this, Pontmercy."

Marius smiles and nods. “Okay then,” He gets to his feet with an air of determined finality and holds out a hand towards her. “I think I owe the lady a dance.”

Cosette raises an eyebrow. “What-  _now_?”

"No time like the present." He says with a shrug.

She laughs, shaking her head at the ridiculousness that is Marius Pontmercy. “There’s no music.”

He grins and reaches into the pocket of his jacket, pulling out a battered iPod and a tangle of headphones. Marius shakes the two of them and wiggles his eyebrows, as if that provides greater motivation for her to dance with him in the middle of a playground at ten o’ clock at night. She sighs and gets to her feet, shaking her head with fond exasperation as he hands her an earbud. Shaking her head, Cosette lifts the earbud and places it in her ear, waiting for Marius to pick a song. He smiles down at the iPod, turning the wheel and pursing his lips as he makes a choice. Cosette tries not to think of him as adorable, but, well, fails horribly. He finally settles on a song, and it slowly drifts into her ear as he places the iPod back in his pocket.

"What’s this?"

Marius shrugs. “Norah Jones. Thought it would be good for- I dunno, slow dancing in a park at night?”

Cosette laughs, shaking her head as a voice starts singing slowly. “We’re not actually gonna do this, are we?”

"Oh yes." Marius grins, pulling her closer and placing his hand on her hip. Taking the hint, Cosette slowly wraps her sweatered arms around his neck, moving in close enough to smell- well, truthfully, Courfeyrac, because Marius lives with him and Courfeyrac has a terrible habit of spraying anything that sits still long enough with cologne. But added to that, or really, hidden underneath it, is the crisp smell of soap and a hint of maple syrup. Which is a bit weird and oddly Marius. He begins to sway back and forth, leading her in a slow circle as he does so, his feet doing a little two-step. Then he’s humming along with the music and it’s cheesy and definitely weird if anyone happens to stumble upon them like this, but Cosette- doesn’t care.

Before she can think too much on this, she decides to tap into the recklessness at her core and just go with it, wrapping her arms further around him and pulling him closer. He smiles feebly and lets her rest her head on his shoulder, as his arms wrap around her back.

She can’t hear the music, not really. Not over the pounding of her heart, the way his breath shutters a little when she curls her fingers in his hair, the thoughts racing through her head, whizzing past in a flurry of  _cosette-what-are-you-doing-you-finally-found-a-home-what-if-you-break-up-and-lose-all-of-them-what-will-grantaire-think-they’d-definitely-choose-him-he’d-never-stop-laughing-this-could-blow-up-in-your-face_ \- Marius shifts, his warmth enveloping her as his hands move her even closer in the most chaste way possible, and Cosette’s mind quiets, hearing only the soft, low voice drifting into her ear, the sound of crickets, and the occasional rush of tires on the street.

The song ends, and something a bit more upbeat but still  _technically_  a slow song starts playing. Marius chuckles, whispering into Cosette’s ear,”Someday, you gotta listen to the lyrics of this song. It’s incredibly fitting.”

As the song goes on about people dancing when ‘they’re feeling in love’ (the implications of which Cosette is very much _not_  thinking about right now, thank you very much), Marius starts to get fancy. He takes her hand in his and spins her outwards- Cosette laughs as she twirls around, her hair spinning in all directions and the earbud being pulled from her ear in one quick motion.

"Shit- here-" Marius tugs the earbuds out of the iPod and sets it down on the little bench next to them, then grabs Cosette’s hand and spins her again, pulling her back towards him and dipping her. She kicks her foot up with a laugh, throwing her head back and letting him snap her back up. They begin swaying again, then Marius starts moving, a step to the side and front that Cosette stumbles to catch up with as he turns her in a circle.

"Have you been practicing this?" She says, giggling, as he spins her in place, under his arm, then pulls her in so her back is pressed against his chest.

"Maybe." Comes his response, sly and quiet, as the music slows a bit.

"Do you hear that love? They’re playing our song." He says in time with the music, and Cosette grins, because somehow, even with the extreme cheesiness and the fact that he just called her ‘love’, she’s having a lot of fun. Marius spins her back around so they’re facing each other and begins leading her in a small circle again. His hand rests on her waist, light and delicate, barely touching her. It’s very- respectful and proper, and despite their surroundings and the fact that they live in the 20th century, she feels like an upper-class woman of the 1800s, attending a ball with her husband-to-be (this is one of those things she will never,  _ever_  mention to Enjolras).

Marius smiles at her, little dimples showing and dark brown eyes lit by the glow of the streetlamps. He looks so handsome in this light that Cosette realizes why she fell so hard the first time she saw him- she wonders when, exactly, she forgot how attractive he was. He leans into her and whispers, “Do you trust me?”

Cosette smiles. “Why Prince Ali, this is all so sudden.”

"Is-" Marius frowns. "Was that a yes?"

Cosette laughs and nods, and he grins back at her, spinning her out again, with a bit more control this time, and just the slightest bit slower. “Then jump.”

So she does.

He catches her legs, holding her up with a hand behind her back as she wraps her arms around his neck, and spins her around slowly and carefully as she laughs, smiling at him and moving just the slightest bit closer as he grins at her, apparently stronger than she would have guessed.

Cosette giggles happily, feeling weightless and classic and-

Okay, yeah.

She gets lost in his eyes.

Shut up.

She looks into the deep, warm brown of his eyes as he slowly lowers her to the ground, mind clear of anything but Marius, and his dancing, and the way he held her- until the song ends, and something that sounds like Down Under by Men at Work starts playing, effectively breaking the mood. With a laugh, Marius lets go of her waist and Cosette follows his lead reluctantly, placing her arms back by her sides as he moves to turn off his iPod, cheeks flushed and eyes glued to the ground. Marius gathers the iPod and his earbuds and stuffs the two of them in the pocket of his coat, still not meeting her eyes. She coughs slightly to get his attention, unsure of what exactly she’ll do once she has it. He looks at her finally, standing awkwardly in front of her and obviously waiting for a cue or some sort of instruction, which might just be the most adorable thing she’s seen in a long time. Cosette leans up, rising onto her toes, and kisses him on the cheek, just once, just- slowly. He exhales again, stuttering, and near-beams at her, cheeks darkening in a blush.

"C’mon." She says quietly, smiling, and wraps her hand around his to lead him into the grass at the edge of the playground.

She hears him stumble a bit as she tugs on his arm, and laughs to herself, because some things never change. “Where’re you taking me?” He says quietly, and she smiles.

"Nice dinner, walk in the park, dancing in the dark-" Cosette shrugs as he falls into step with her. "If we’re checking items off my list of Cheesy Things To Do With a Boy, I figure looking at the stars is next, don’t you?"

She can  _feel_  him blushing awkwardly next to her as he stutters slightly, saying in a quiet voice as they reach the grass, “Cheesy?”

Cosette glances sideways at him, smiling softly. “In the absolute best way possible.”

"Oh." Marius’ eyes dart to the ground. "Well, okay. Good."

She shakes her head fondly, finding an appropriately comfy-looking patch of grass and flopping down on it, lying on her back and smiling up at the sky as Marius joins her slowly, looking unsure of what to do.

"Lie down." She commands softly, and he complies, breathing slowly as she moves to place her head on his stomach, using him as a human pillow.

His hands find her hair and start playing with a strand of it absently, as if he doesn’t fully register what he’s doing. After a few seconds he murmurs quietly, “I’m glad I finally found you.”

Cosette laughs. “You’ve known me for ages, Marius.”

"I know, but- I dunno. It feels different now. Like I never really saw you before." Cosette almost rolls her eyes at the incredible cheesiness of that statement, as well as the age old idea of a guy having some grand realization that one of his friends is hot and suddenly falling madly in love with her, before Marius continues. "I mean, you’ve always been beautiful Cosette, Grantaire’s partner in crime and Bahorel’s- I dunno, touch-her-and-I’ll-fucking-kill-you, but now- now you’re Cosette, with the fear of clowns and heights, who sings Classic rock in the shower and has four Disney CDs in her car, who cackles like a witch sometimes and likes too much sugar in her tea." He pauses, and his breathing stills for a fraction of a second. "Does that make sense?"

"I think so, yeah." Because he isn’t just Marius, the poor sod who doesn’t like social interaction and pays a fourth of Courfeyrac’s rent. He’s Marius, recently estranged from the grandfather who raised him, Marius, who can re-enact every scene of Galaxy Quest with alarming accuracy, Marius, who makes little origami creatures and keeps them in his pocket to give to little kids in the Supermarket whose parents aren’t paying attention to them. Marius, who was shoved into a booth a few weeks ago as part of a campus-wide experiment put on by Les Amis to try and get students to befriend people they’d never met before (to show that others weren’t really as different as they thought) and ended up being paired with Cosette. In that few minutes she’d found out more about him than she did in months of being in Les Amis, but unfortunately, the rules dictated it had to be anonymous.

(According to Courfeyrac, Marius had been going crazy, raving on and on about wanting to find this mystery girl who was obviously perfect and made for him.

"And if it’s not a girl?" Courfeyrac had said, raising an eyebrow.

Marius had stopped. “Of course it’s a girl.”

"Mar, you were using microphones that made your voices sound like aliens. This person could be any gender. Or genderless. Or a semi-sentient cloud being."

Marius had shrugged. “Well, I guess I’ll cross that bridge when I meet Ursula.”

“ _Ursula_?”

"Uh-" Marius blushed. "She- they-  _it_  really likes the Little Mermaid. That’s the main character, right?”

Courfeyrac had stopped before sharing what happened next, but Cosette guessed it had something to do with Courfeyrac rolling his eyes, tutting like the old grandmother he had a tendency to be, and tying Marius down before forcing him to watch the Little Mermaid and its sequel. Thrice. )

Cosette smiled, turning her head to look at Marius. “Is it true you put up flyers looking for your ‘anonymous soul-mate with who likes classic rock, kitten heels and sugar daddies’?”

Marius tenses, and is silent for a second before groaning, “Courfeyrac  _promised_  he’d take that one to the grave.”

"He tweeted it and posted a picture on tumblr, instagram and facebook."

“ _Perfect_.” Marius lets out a little whimper of defeat before sighing. “You would not  _believe_  the responses I got.”

Cosette laughs. “Well, what’d you expect, writing something like-“

“ _You said they were your favorite candy I did not know it meant something else_.” He says in a tense voice, and Cosette can’t hold in her giggles, but she nicely tries to cover them with her hand. Marius makes an affronted noise before laughing as well, and she feels the vibrations travelling through his chest as they laugh together.

"You’re a little ridiculous, I hope you know." Cosette says when she pauses for breath, vaguely sore from laughing so hard. "I mean, in a good way, obviously-"

"Nah, it’s okay." Marius sighs, then laughs softly. "Though I might have to change my email; this one guy named Zeke won’t stop sending me messages about how he’s looking for a ‘hunky, sturdy tree of a man’ to complete him, and I’ve tried to tell him that in no way describes me, but he refuses to listen-"

Cosette grins, shaking her head. “Them’s the breaks, Pontmercy.”

"Don’t I know it."

Cosette lets out a slight exhale of a laugh, and turns her head back up to look at the stars. They’re really beautiful, though slightly obscured by the light pollution of the city. She sighs and sinks a little deeper into Marius, and lets herself relax, feeling the tension flowing out of her and into the air as the cool November breeze tickles her skin. She feels her eyes flicker shit as she slowly drifts off…

Seconds (or maybe minutes) later, she’s startled awake by Marius poking her in the side. He looks down at her, eyes wide. “Sorry, I was gonna let you sleep, but, uh- okay, don’t be alarmed.”

"Oh god."

Marius’ eyes widen even further. “No- I mean, there’s a slight possibility there’s a snake here but I’m sure it’s fine-“

“ _WHAT_?” Cosette jerks up, looking around the grass frantically for a sign of a slithering reptile before hearing the low, continuous hiss moving through the air, and relaxing. “Marius, that’s not a snake, that’s just the sound of the sprinklers turning on.”

“ _Oh_.” Marius says, smiling with relief, before his face freezes. “Oh.”

It takes her a second to realize before Cosette’s face falls and it hits her, making her well and thoroughly alarmed. “ _Fuck_.”

Then she’s laughing hysterically, because a sprinkler turns on  _right_  next to Marius, hitting him in the face with a jet of cold water as he falls over in surprise, raising his arms in front of his face as if trying to stop the water from attacking him. Cosette lets her witch cackle out in full force, rolling on the cold grass and holding her stomach as Marius flails, trying to crawl out of the line of fire. Then she realizes  _she’s_  getting soaked as well, and struggles to get to her feet, holding out a hand and pulling a dripping and frightened Marius Pontmercy up as he stumbles to his feet with a whimper.

"God, I don’t even  _want_  to know what’s in this water.” Marius says, shuddering either from the thought or the cold. “You know they put fertilizer in it now, right?”

Cosette rolls her eyes, letting go of his hand as the two of them stand, semi-breathless (from terror and laughter) under the continuous spray of the sprinklers. “You’re full of shit.”

Marius’ eyes widen, and he throws his hands up in the air in mild hysteria. “That’s just what I’m saying- I  _could be_!”

Cosette laughs, throwing her head back, and does a little turn in the grass, throwing out her arms and letting the water hit her from all sides. When she turns to face Marius again, he’s looking at her with a mixture of frustration and fond adoration, and she grins, reaching out roughly to grab him by the collar and yank him down into a kiss.

It’s cold and windy as he makes a flustered noise and trips into her, and the height difference means she’s standing on her toes just to reach him as he leans down, not to mention they’re being hit with a continuous flow of water of dubious content, but as kisses go, it’s not bad. Turns out, Marius Pontmercy may be a lot of things, but a bad kisser he is not. His arms wrap around her and he pulls her body against his, moving his tongue into her mouth- not forcefully but politely, if that’s possible, and sucking on her bottom lip gently, but with enough pressure to make her slightly weak at the knees. They pull apart finally, when oxygen becomes too necessary to ignore, and he smiles innocently at her, like some kind of blushing maiden, as if his hands weren’t just running over her ass. He’s an odd one, that Pontmercy.

Cosette decides she likes it.

"You’re soaked." He says quietly, and Cosette remembers that the sprinklers are  _still on_ , and it’s fucking  _November_ , and suddenly feels drenched and chilled to the bone.

“ _Shit_ -” She cries, before racing towards the parking lot, back to dry land and a car with a heater, Marius running after her, laughing as he follows. He catches up with her in a matter of seconds as she stops beside the car, turning around just before he shakes his head and a smatter of freezing droplets whip out at her. Cosette squeals in protest. “ _Asshole_ -” She grunts, shoving him away, and he grins playfully, grabbing her arm and holding her gently.

"Sorry." He says with a sly smile, but even so, Cosette knows he’s actually sorry about it, because that’s just who he is. "Sorry about the sprinklers too, not exactly how I expected this to end…"

Cosette smiles, tucking a strand of hair behind his ear, laughing to herself at the way his trademark tousled hair is falling in front of his eyes and sticking to his face, making him look like a rebellious ‘alternative’ teenager. Or a drowned rat. “Don’t worry about it. This has been- really fun, actually. Though  _you_ -” She looks down at his soaked overcoat, and laughs. “Are soaked to the bone.”

Marius looks down and shivers slightly. “I did realize that actually, it’s- not totally pleasant.”

"Hmm." Cosette gives him a wicked smirk, one that Grantaire has fondly named her ‘about-to-fuck-shit-up’ face, and pulls him back down, whispering in his ear, "Well then, let’s see if we can’t get you out of those wet clothes, warm you up a bit." Before releasing him and sauntering around to the other side of the car, unlocking the driver’s side door. "Wouldn’t want you catching cold."

Marius flushes red as Cosette slides into the front seat, pulling her soggy, heavy oversized sweater over her head and tossing it into the backseat, knowing full well the white shirt she’s wearing underneath is now both see-through and soaking wet, and smirking at Marius who, unsurprisingly, trips twice before finally getting the car door open and sliding into the seat beside her.

Cosette starts the car with a small laugh as Marius fumbles with the seatbelt and thinks maybe, just maybe, this might actually work.

**————————**

**songs they dance to:**

[ **come away with me** ](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=c1V5Wk9gb4U)

[ **all about us** ](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=R7Gf2SOmz5Q)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> okay so here's the thing:  
> these are all unedited and stuff and i don't update very often because these were just meant to be little writing exercises that no one cared about  
> BUT THEN YOU STARTED KUDOS-ING AND SUBSCRIBING
> 
> and i love each and every person who's ever left me a comment or a kudos with all my heart  
> hell if you're reading this right now i love you  
> thank you so so much  
> and i will try to update with more frequency and make the chapters more intelligible and pertaining to a plotline so we'll see how that goes
> 
> anyway i love you guys thanks so much for even taking the time to read my rambling text as i try to figure out how i want to characterize every amis
> 
> comments are always welcome and feel free to come harass me on my blog (pieandangelwings.tumblr.com)  
> and have a lovely day citizen  
> \- L


	20. In Battle; Side-by-Side

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Grantaire and Eponine fuck people's shit up and one of them gets hurt

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> in which i hurt my characters and pretend I know how to write an action scene
> 
> (continuation of Doing Something Together, happens immediately after)

The first thing Courfeyrac notices is the way Marius slides Cosette behind him; even though he’s about as useful in a fight as a compass in a dark forest (able to tell you how to get where you’re going but less than useless when it comes to helping you make the journey), Marius will keep Cosette from harm with his dying breath. It’s one of those things he loves about the idiot - his devotion to the people he loves. Without really realizing it, Courfeyrac himself has moved between Thugs United and his friends, and Enjolras has moved with him, fists clenched as if this is in any way his fight, and Courfeyrac knows he’ll protect Marius and Cosette just as fiercely as Courfeyrac is prepared to.

Grantaire laughs in front of him, as Eponine slowly moves to his side, then slightly behind him. “Ep, you got this?” He calls backward, not really needing a response.

Eponine cracks her knuckles and shifts her neck from side to side, then slides past Grantaire and shoots Cosette (or maybe Marius) an evil grin. It’s times like this Courfeyrac realizes why exactly Grantaire calls Eponine the daughter of a wolf (and is pretty darn terrified of her- in a good way).

See the thing is, Courfeyrac has had the chance to see Grantaire and Eponine in action exactly once before, and it had been- well, a little scary. The two of them work so well together you have to wonder exactly  _what_  they’ve been through, where they’ve been, who they’ve beaten to death and dumped in a ditch.

”Eddie- it  _is_  Eddie, yeah?” Grantaire says, but gets no response, just (so-called) Eddie moving slowly closer to him. “C’mon, man, we don’t have to do this. We had a good game, you lost- let’s leave it there.” Good game is a  _bit_  of a stretch- yes, the game was good, yes Grantaire played fair, but he did trick the man into thinking he was drunk and an easy target, so he’s on shaky moral ground there.

"I don’t think so little man." Eddie grunts, moving closer (and okay, must we with the short jokes?  _must we_?). “I think you’re gonna give me back my money. Or you’re gonna fucking die.”

Courfeyrac would roll his eyes at the incredibly b-movie level threat Eddie is giving, if he weren’t just this side of terrified the guy’s gonna kick the everliving shit out of his best friend. Grantaire seizes the opportunity for mockery, though, and throws back a heavy, barking laugh, before Eddie swings out at him, a right-hook aimed directly at R’s face.

Grantaire reaches out with those inhuman reflexes of his and catches the swing, pulling Eddie to the right of him, then uses his left palm and forearm to shove Eddie down, shifting most of his weight onto the taller man. Eddie struggles in the grip but Grantaire holds him and Courfeyrac sighs, because they’ve reached the point of no return. Once you make a hoodlum look bad in front of his hoodlemites, a fight is inevitable. “Eddie. Call off your boys. We don’t have to do this.”

Eddie grunts angrily, “Mike!”

The Artist Courfeyrac Assumes to be Mike grabs both of Grantaire’s arms and pulls him off of Eddie, pinning R’s hands behind his back. Courfeyrac watches with a knowing grin as Eponine moves slowly around the left front pool table (of the four dingy, well-worn tables in this crap-tastic bar they’ve found themselves in), moving soundlessly like the mistress of stealth he knows her to be. At the same time, Eddie punches Grantaire squarely in the gut and Grantaire falls forward with a grunt of pain. Eddie steps back with a booming laugh, looking at all of his cronies with a proud smile, like a predator showing off his latest kill. Courfeyrac, for the first time that night, worries for the safety of his friend.

"So here’s what’s gonna happen, smart-ass." Eddie says with a grin, as Grantaire’s head stays slumped. "You’re gonna give me my  _fucking money_ , I’m gonna beat your pussy ass, and then-” He grins, showing yellowed teeth, at Cosette, and Courfeyrac can  _feel_  Marius shuddering next to him as he hears the tell-tale intake of breath as he puffs up to try and look menacing. “You’re gonna give me some time alone with your little whore.”

Grantaire’s head whips upward, a white-hot rage in his eyes, and grins at him like some sort of bat-shit crazy serial killer. It’s more than a little terrifying, and Courfeyrac worries less. “You  _really_ -” He grins a little wider. “Should not have said that.”

Then he kicks Eddie straight in the dick.

"Dammit guys, we should have recorded this for youtube-" Courfeyrac says offhandedly, but no one laughs.

Figures.

As Eddie falls to his knees with a groan, Grantaire thrusts his head backwards, the back of it colliding with Mike’s jaw (or maybe his nose). Then he reaches his arms backward in a motion that’s almost impossibly fast, grabbing Mike’s collar and pulling the thug’s shirt over his head, covering his face, then spins in place and pulls the collar down further so it takes Mike’s head with it, at the same time jerking his knee upward so it connects directly with the thug’s face.

"Oh  _shit_ ,” Courfeyrac mutters, under his breath, wondering if these hoodlums are going to leave the bar in one piece.

As Mike stumbles backwards, towards the right wall, Grantaire grabs a cue from the table and swings it over his head like it’s a fucking baton (fancy show-off-y asshole), stepping slowly towards Mike, who’s sliding down the length of the wall and clutching his face.

Courfeyrac notices the third thug coming up behind Grantaire at the same time Enjolras does, though Enjolras is less familiar with Grantaire’s ninja-ness (and a quite bit more in love with Grantaire) than Courfeyrac is, and cries out  a warning “Gran-” but barely gets the first syllable out before both of Grantaire’s hands clench down on the cue and he shoves it backward along his left side, delivering a strike to thug #3’s gut that would’ve most definitely killed him if Grantaire had been using a broadsword. Or really any type of sword.  As it is, thug #3 just falls to the floor with a grunt of fucking-shit-that-hurt, and Grantaire holds the cue out at him menacingly.

"If you know what’s good for you," He says, obviously having watched way too many action movies and wanting to impress Enjolras with his badass-ness. Courfeyrac will let it slide just this once, because it’s his birthday and Grantaire kicking the everliving shit out of people has been the most entertaining part of his evening so far (not that it’s had much competition, the most entertaining before the bar fight was Marius falling off of three consecutive street curbs). "You’ll stay down."

Which would be very impressive and tough guy, obviously, if Mike didn’t, at that moment, kick Grantaire’s leg out from under him and send him crashing to the floor.

Thug number the fourth (who’s wearing a mechanic’s jacket with a patch that says ‘Kyle’, and whom Courfeyrac will hitherto refer to as Kyle, whether or not that happens to actually be his name) lets out a weird-ass laugh, something wheezy, ugly, and perfect for an insignificant henchman. He has yet to notice Eponine standing directly behind him, glaring daggers at his shaved head.

Next to Courfeyrac, Enjolras’ eyes widen in concern, and he steps determinedly towards Grantaire, as if he could actually be helpful rather than disrupt his and Eponine’s tried and true routine. Courfeyrac lurches forward to grab his best friend’s arm, yanking him backward. Enjolras opens his mouth to protest and shoots Courfeyrac his best get-in-the-way-of-my-righteous-fury-and-i-will-make-you-wish-you’d-never-been-born face, to which Courfeyrac says the only thing that can make him stop, a muttered “It’s not your job to protect him”.

It stops Enjolras in his tracks and the glare falls from his face, replaced with an expression of shock and hurt, and Courfeyrac feels immediately guilty, but supposes it’s for the greater good. “Just- don’t.” He says quietly, and Enjolras’ eyes look-  _young_. Scarily young and confused, like a child who can’t understand why his parents don’t love each other anymore. Courfeyrac feels another rush of guilt, stronger this time, but pushes it aside.

He’ll apologize later.

Courfeyrac’s eyes flick to the motion behind Enjolras, and he glances behind the blond to see Eponine tapping Kyle on the shoulder. He turns around with a smirk, still half laughing and obviously not prepared for Eponine to punch him squarely in the face with a sickening noise that definitely means the man’s honker is broken four ways to Sunday.  He flails backward, eyes wide with shock, as his nose starts gushing blood. Thug #3, who’s still a bit red in the face, lurks toward Eponine with a crooked grimace. She picks up a pool cue from the table next to her and shoves it at him like an avenging warrior queen delivering a final and crucial death blow.

And misses.

Thug #3 catches the cue and yanks it forward, pulling Eponine with it, then grins and says slowly, close enough to her face that Courfeyrac makes a mental note to ask her whether his breath smells like rotting corpses or Fritos. “Ooh, looks like this pussy cat got claws.”

Eponine smiles at him, a ‘oh you dumb fucker’ kind of smile, then headbutts him straight in the nose. She lets go of the cue in the same moment and punches him in the stomach with her right hand, then brings her left hook around to punch him in the face so hard he falls almost immediately to the floor. Courfeyrac feels a not-unfamiliar rush of affection and admiration for his best friend; barely over five feet and taking down gang members. Get it girl.

Eddie (who will probably never be able to reproduce, and we bow our heads in fervent thanks to Grantaire’s foot for that), shakily gets to his feet as Mike, who has yanked Grantaire up and is holding him by the collar, punches Grantaire once, twice, in the face, laughing as Grantaire staggers backward. He lifts his foot up and shoves it forward to kick at Grantaire’s chest.

Courfeyrac hears Cosette’s breath catch behind him.

Grantaire, being the smooth motherfucker they all know him to be, catches Mike’s foot with his left arm and holds it there with a smile, before punching him so hard his face almost does a complete 360.

Kyle, who’s got an extremely attractive smear of blood across his face and a nose still gushing blood, lets out a strangled cry and rushes at Eponine. Cosette notices him moving and calls out to Eponine, trying to warn her, but their Cuban warrior queen is already moving, grabbing a pool cue from the table to her left and spinning on her heel, pulling it behind her and stepping forward shortly, then swinging the cue forward like it’s a bat and she’s gunning for the world series. It connects squarely with Kyle’s face and knocks him flat on his ass, and Courfeyrac is willing to bet anything that a, he’s unconscious, and b, he’s gonna need a  _shit-ton_  of recovery time.

Eddie, seeming to have gotten over the loss of his ‘nads, is advancing on Grantaire, flicking out a knife (Courfeyrac tightens his grip on Enjolras’ arm instinctively  and stabbing out at Grantaire in an impossibly fast, violent motion. Courfeyrac’s breath catches and he hears Cosette let out a quickly silenced cry of concern, because _Grantaire’s been fucking stabbed_ \- he can’t even- doesn’t even  _want to_  - imagine what Enjolras’ face looks like right now.

If Grantaire-

No.

He can’t- he won’t-

Courfeyrac’s heart drops, and he waits for Grantaire to fall, for his shirt to be enveloped in red- anything-

_Oh_.

Grantaire’s caught Eddie’s arm mid stab.

He’s not injured, the knife missed it’s target- Grantaire is stepping around it, bringing his left arm up to punch the fucking dickbasket right in the jaw. Courfeyrac barely supresses a whooping cheer, and lets out a breath he was only semi-aware he was holding. That was much too fucking intense. Damn Grantaire and his stupid flair for melodrama straight to hell.

Eddie drops the knife and staggers backward, and Grantaire for his part presses his back against the wall, awaiting the assault. With a roar, Eddie flings himself towards Grantaire again, swinging his fist out wildly. Grantaire dodges the blow with a cocky ease, shifting to the side and letting Eddie’s fist hit the (what looks like brick) wall with a sickening crack. In the same motion, Grantaire grabs an empty beer bottle from the table next to him and smashes it over the back of Eddie’s head, and the angry half-ape finally goes down, limbs splaying out onto the floor as they hear a strangled cry come from Eponine.

Courfeyrac, who really cannot fucking decide who to watch, whips his head back to Ep, who is caught in a headlock from behind by thug #3. His forearm is pressed against her neck and he laughs at her as she squirms in his grip. With a glare of frankly frightening determination, she brings her arm up and slams her elbow into his pelvis (or maybe groin, it’s hard to tell), and the painful surprise on his part means he lets his grip on her neck loosen just enough for her to move her head back and bite into his forearm, drawing blood almost immediately.

Thug number three, clutching his bleeding arm, roars in surprise as he backs away from her, nearly doubled over, and glares at her through lidded eyes. “Fuck you,  _bitch_.” He spits out, voice cracked with pain but tinged with venom.

Eponine spits to the side, a spray of his blood smattering over the pool table to her right, and says, “Sorry, I’m spoken for,” before shoving his shoulders down and bringing her knee up to his chest.

Courfeyrac hears a roar and turns to see Mike, furious and almost primal, throw himself at Grantaire, before both of them fall to the ground, knocking over a couple of bar stools. This time, Courfeyrac has to use as much strength as he has to hold Enjolras back, pinning both of the blond’s arms behind his back (he really,  _really_  fucking hopes Enjolras doesn’t try Grantaire’s headbutt move on him) as the thug and their friend struggle on the floor, ending with Mike straddling Grantaire, his hands around the man’s neck.

Courfeyrac is so focused on the fuck-that-dick-is-going-to-kill-my-friend that he doesn’t notice Eponine moving towards the two of them until she’s swinging a bar stool down and breaking it on the thug’s back. There’s a worrying crack as the cheap wood splinters against his spine, and Mike slumps forward onto Grantaire, who shoves the unconscious man off of him with a grimace.

Eponine holds out a hand to Grantaire, who accepts it easily. He jerks upward, uneasy on his feet, and gives her a fond, shaky smile. “Run?” Grantaire says, out of the corner of his mouth.

Eponine wipes a bit of blood from the corner of her mouth, looking around the bar with a smirk, and Courfeyrac tales a moment to survey the scene before him.

The bartender, first of all, doesn’t seem to fucking  _care_  about the ruckus in his establishment, as he leans over the counter and flirts with a girl who is (surprisingly) managing to rock the cheap extensions and cheaper highlights look.

There are four leather-and-denim-and-polyester clad douchebags in various states of disarray and internal bleeding scattered across the bar floor, three broken cheap-ass bar-stools in a pile around one of the hoodlum’s head, two broken pool cues, and a partridge in a pear tree.

Nah, just kidding.

But there is a shard of glass sticking out the back of an asshole’s head, which is pretty much the same thing.

As for Eponine and Grantaire, well. Both of their knuckles are bleeding, Grantaire’s lip is split in a way that really shouldn’t be as sexy as it is (objectively speaking of course), and they’re both going to have at least one black eye by the morning. And still, despite the aggression and violence, the two of them look completely at ease. Like the chaos is their natural state, and they’ve finally returned to it. Courfeyrac suddenly feels a rush of gratitude that these sarcastic cynical psychos are his friends. And may he never,  _ever_  piss them off. Eponine grins, smiling at Grantaire with blood stained teeth. “Run.”

Within seconds, Cosette is pulling Marius out the door as he tries not to trip over his own feet, and Courfeyrac is dragging a dumbstruck Enjolras behind them as Grantaire and Eponine laugh and bring up the rear. The six of them sprint out the door, almost running down a confused and frightened bar patron, and into the cool night air, and the rain soaking into their clothes as they run through the streets, racing away from the bar and towards god-knows-where, giddy from excitement and the thrill of the fight, still half-reeling with the terror they felt in the bar.

When they finally slow to a stop under a streetlight, breaths ragged and hoarse, Cosette lifts her hand to Eponine’s face, making sure she hasn’t been hurt too badly and shaking her head as she laughs. Courfeyrac wishes he could do the same, but for two seperate reasons, finds it impossible. The first is that Eponine and Grantaire are scarily self-reliant, and consider the mere thought that they might need to be looked after offensive. For some reason, Cosette is the only one they actively allow to be worried for or take care of them, so Courfeyrac knows he would only be pushed away if he tried to make sure his friends were okay. The second reason is that he is almost ridiculously out of shape, and with all this sprinting it’s very possible his heart has imploded.

"You’re a little psychotic, I hope you know." Marius mutters to Eponine, shaking his head fondly as Cosette wraps her arms around her friend, burying her head in Eponine’s shoulder. Behind the three of them, Courfeyrac leans down, hands on his knees, and tries to keep his lungs from flinging themselves onto the pavement.

"What the hell were you thinking?" Says a quiet voice from behind him, a voice Courfeyrac knows to be Enjolras’, but he hasn’t heard that much raw emotion in it for- longer than he can remember. Courfeyrac stands and turns, just slightly, so he can see both of them out of the corner of his eye. Enjolras is standing much too close to Grantaire, one hand examining the underside of Grantaire’s jaw for bruises. Grantaire looks more than a little uncomfortable, but Courfeyrac knows he’s enjoying the proximity, and the tenderness Enjolras is showing.

_If only Enjolras could keep his mouth shut for five seconds, it would’ve been so_ _romantic_ , Courfeyrac thinks, as the cool night air rips his lungs to shreds with every ragged breath he takes.

"Calm down, Enj." Grantaire replies, too defensively. Can’t he tell Enjolras isn’t trying to attack him? He was worried, that’s all. Courfeyrac considers telling Grantaire as much, but he knows it wouldn’t help a damn thing, because Grantaire’d never believe it. "They’ll be fine. Their egos are hurt more than anything else, and no one saw enough of us to ID us. I mean, what’re they gonna say? Hey, this biker gang got the shit kicked out of them by a group of hipsters, two of whom were obviously veelas. You wanna arrest them, or…?" Grantaire smirks, shaking his head with a laugh. "Seriously, don’t worry about it-"

"I’m not worried about that, I’m-"  _worried about you._ “Dammit, Grantaire.”  _Don’t scare me like that. Don’t risk your life unnecessarily and don’t ask me to watch you get hurt._ "What the hell is wrong with you?" _Why can’t you see how afraid I was?_

Courfeyrac, as Grantaire’s eyes darken and his body tenses, wonders why he and Combeferre seem to be the only ones who’ve ever been able to read what’s so clearly written across Enjolras’ face. The thing is, Enjolras, for all he seems cold and unforgiving, has this amazing capacity for love, and- some people have taken advantage of that. From his parents- who never really took care of him, who never loved him the way he deserved, to his previous romantic interests- who never understood how he expressed his love, and never treated him they should have, it’s only ever been Courfeyrac and Combeferre who have understood exactly what he feels, how he works. When Enjolras loves, either in friendship or romantically, he puts his whole heart into it. And over the years, he’s grown to understand exactly how much that can hurt him, knows the power he’s giving to people, so he tries to keep it hidden. Tries to make it less than it is, to protect himself.

It’s funny, isn’t it? How Enjolras and Grantaire can be so different and yet-

So fundamentally similar.

"Enjolras, it’s  _fine_.” Grantaire scoffs, pushing Enjolras’ hands away.

“ _Fuck_ , R, why-”  _don’t you understand that I miss you so much it hurts, and I can’t bear to see you in danger_ _?_  “Why can’t you just  _think_  once in a while?” His voice is raised now, and behind Courfeyrac the Eponine sandwich breaks apart slowly as its members realize what’s going on in the street beside them.

Cosette looks back at the two of them, her relief melting away to concern. “Enjolras, it’s not that big of a deal.”

"Yeah," Eponine says, grinning semi-uncomfortably. "We’re all happy, in one piece-y, and three Franklins richer. You can buy a lot of justice with that kind of money." She gives a wiggle of her eyebrows, trying to relieve some of the tension.

Enjolras, obviously still freaking out, whips around to face Grantaire again. “Good to know when faced with the choice between your stupid macho pride and the safety of your friends, you pick the option that gets them _strangled_.”

"Oh, I’m sorry, I missed the part where you were even the tiniest bit in danger, you pompous ass-"

"That’s not the point, and you know it." Enjolras hisses, stepping dangerously close to Grantaire. "You think you can just fuck off your entire life, do the same stupid shit you did in highschool because you’re just as bored now as you were then-"

Grantaire’s eyes narrow as he and Enjolras stand toe-to-toe. “Hey, fuck you, you don’t know  _shit_  about my life.”

"You think you can just use people, treat them like objects because you’re bored and want to have some fun, but that’s not how it fucking  _works_ , R!” Enjolras is almost shouting now, fingers clenched in Grantaire’s jacket, and suddenly, he isn’t talking about the bar fight anymore. “You never take them into account, that they could possibly get hurt- what, your lack of self-worth automatically means no one else is worth anything, either?”

Okay, that’s enough. Courfeyrac steps towards the two of them, breathless and more than a little pissed that they’re acting like such morons. Chest still fighting for air, he says. “Enjolras, c’mon, he didn’t mean to-“

"Courf, don’t." Grantaire laughs, hollow and bitter, and shoves Enjolras’ hands away, taking a step back. "Sorry I fucked up. Sorry I fuck  _everything_  up. Sorry I’m such a disappointment to you-  sorry you thought you were in love with me, fuck, I’m sorry we ever slept together, Enjolras, is that what you want to hear?” Grantaire’s voice cracks, and he looks at Enjolras with desperation in his eyes.

"Wait, what the f-“

“ _Shut up Marius_ -” Cosette and Eponine hiss in unison, eyes wide, and Cosette even goes so far to clamp her hand down over his mouth.

"Well." Enjolras says as his eyes flick to the ground momentarily then find Grantaire’s again, his expression blank and a cold emotionless glint in his eyes. "I’m sorry too. Sorry I deluded myself into ever thinking I could love-" His breath hitches, quiet and strained, but he continues, "someone like you."

Grantaire laughs again, soft and breathy. “Obviously.” He shakes his head, then lifts it upward, smiling at the night sky. “Obviously not someone like me. Never someone like me. No way in hell could someone like you-” He gestures to Enjolras, tears welling in his eyes and a pained smile cracking across his face. “Ever be in love with a worthless asshole of a drunk like me. What the  _fuck_  were you thinking?” He shakes his head, still smiling (if you can even call it that), and shoves his hands into his pockets, looking for a flask that isn’t there.

"Guys-" Courfeyrac says, weakly, looking between the two of them as he finally finds his voice again. He says the only thing he can think of, when everything is as fucked up as it is, the only option that might even vaguely get them to cooperate. "Come on. It’s my  _birthday_.”

Enjolras glances towards him, looking lost and alone for the second time that night, then his expression falls and he just looks- sad. “Happy birthday, Courf.” He gives him a strained, faint smile, and walks off, obviously having no idea where the fuck he’s going, but they let him go.

"Wait- they were- what just  _happened_ -“

"Shut  _up_  Marius!” Cosette cries, stepping towards Grantaire. “R, don’t-“

"Ep?" Grantaire says simply, staring after Enjolras’ silhouette  barely lit by the cold wash of the streetlights.

Eponine nods once, walking past Grantaire and placing an understanding arm on his shoulder. “I’ll help him get home.” Eponine’s eyes narrow dangerously in Enjolras’ direction. “With as little conversation as possible.”

Grantaire smiles weakly, nodding. Eponine moves past him swiftly, before he reaches out clumsily and grabs her arm. She looks back at him, eyebrow raised in a silent question, and Grantaire sighs, defeated. “Please, jus- don’t let anything happen to him. And tell Combeferre to take care of him, for me.”

Eponine sighs, and nods again, smiling at her best friend. “For you, ‘taire.” She shakes her head and mutters, “ _Weren’t for you I’d let the cabron die in the fucking sewer_ s.”

Grantaire laughs, forced and pained, and releases his grip on her arm. Eponine hurries down the darkened street to catch up with Enjolras, slowing to follow a few steps behind him. The four of them watch them go until they almost disappear into the darkness.

"Well." Grantaire says finally, clearing his throat. "Let’s see if we can’t find the way home- or at least a fucking taxi, we’ve got more than enough money to cover cab fare." He smiles at Courfeyrac weakly, trying so  _hard_  to pretend everything’s okay, and Courfeyrac-

Courfeyrac just thinks about how everything has managed to fall apart so completely, and wonders if they can ever fix it.

Happy birthday to him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i give you cute and then pain i really apologize for this
> 
> stay tuned to find out if enj and R ever stop hurting each other


	21. How They Met

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> this is gonna be a three-parter to make up for the fact that i'm functionally useless when it comes to updating

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> in which i blatantly ignore the plain and simple fact that children are given first names
> 
> and am not even a little bit ashamed of that
> 
> anyway this is how enjolras and combeferre met

"I _don't wanna_ put on play clothes."

Mrs. Enjolras sighs and looks down at her son as he rolls back and forth on her bed, fingers wrapped around his toes and a sour expression on his face. "Pumpkin, this will be good for you. It's always nice to make new friends."

"I don't _want_ new friends." Enjolras (who is still too young to properly pronounce his first name, and barely able to introduce himself by his last) whines, flopping his limbs back onto the comforter and staring at the ceiling. "I've already _got_ Nana. And Louis."

"Darling, the nanny and your imaginary friend don't count. They can't toss a ball around with you, or climb trees."

"Don't _wanna_ climb trees."

"All boys like climbing trees." She says, checking her mirror one last time and wiping a little smudge of mascara from her cheek, before smoothing down the edge of her eyebrow. "Look, I'm not a big fan of this- _development_ either, but we don't have much of a choice here. We've all gotta do things we don't want to, baby." Enjolras' mother sits down carefully on the bed next to her son. "If we buy you a new bicycle, will you be nice to Jacqueline's son?"

Enjolras sits up straight, staring with suspicious eyes. "The red one?"

"Whatever you want."

"...and a pink basket?"

Mrs. Enjolras laughs, high and delicate, a laugh of carefully perfected femininity. She ruffles her son's white-yellow curls, smiling at him like one would a dog after it runs into a glass door. "Pink really isn't a boy's color, Enjy."

Enjolras' face hardens, and he turns on his side away from his mother, shoving his arms across his chest. _"I want the pink basket_!" He half-whines half-shouts, a clear sign of an impending tantrum.

Rolling her eyes as she pats him on the back stiffly, she sighs, "Fine, honey, we'll talk to your father about it."

"Yay!" Enjolras jumps up on the bed and flings himself over the length of it to hug his mom, before she recoils slightly and kisses him on the forehead.

" _Enjy_ , don't wrinkle my nice dress."

Leaning back, he twists his fingers together and looks down at the mattress. "Sorry, mom."

"It's okay sweetie, just go get dressed, okay? Ask Nana to get your play clothes out."

Enjolras nods twice before flinging himself off the bed and racing out the door, tiny feet padding hurriedly down the staircase as he calls for his nanny.

\---

Huge, inquisitive eyes flicking around the street, Combeferre wrings the worn dark blue fabric between tiny fingers as he carefully steps  out of the bus and onto the curb. "Mama, can't I just go back home? I'll be okay, I _promise_."

"Of course not." As the two of them stand in front of the bus stop, Jacqueline kneels down to pull down her son's hat so it fits over his ears, poking his pink nose lightly with a smile.

"But-"

"I said _no_." She sighs, and shifts slightly on her knee to look at her son with a resigned expression. "Combeferre, can you say anything else that would make me think this is a bad idea, other than that you don't want to meet the Enjolras' son?"

"No, but-"

"I've already said no to that. You waste both your and my time arguing the same point over and over again, understand?"

Combeferre is silent for a second, eyes never leaving his mother's, before he nods once. "Yes mama. Sorry."

Jacqueline smiles fondly and pushes a strand of his fly-away hair behind his ear, then swipes the pad of her thumb down his cheek lovingly. "Don't apologize, just remember it."

"Mama, why can't I stay by myself?" Combeferre says, rocking back and forth on his heels, hands clasped behind his back.

"You're too little, I would worry."

"Why?"

"Because there would be no one to look after you."

"Why do I need someone to look after me? I'm big enough." He says, standing on his tiptoes and sticking out his chin as if to illustrate.

"Because I love you, and I need someone bigger than you with you to make sure you don't get hurt."

"Oh." Combeferre nods. "Okay."

Smiling, Jacqueline takes off her chunky scarf and wraps it around Combeferre's neck before shivering slightly at the loss of coverage from the brisk wind. "I need you to be a big boy and help me out, okay? It's only for this week, ferret. Once Nina gets back you can stay with her again."

Combeferre brightens at that, smiling a somewhat toothless grin (he lost _three whole teeth_ the month before), "Promise?"

"I promise, chéri."

Combeferre sniffles a little and nods his head, taking his mother's hand in his with a resolved and somewhat stern look. "Okay."

Jacqueline smiles at her son and places a kiss to his forehead, squeezing his tiny fingers in the palm of her hand. "Do you want a ride over?"

"Yes, yes, yes!" Combeferre bounces in place as his mom holds out her hands to take his blanket from him. He relinquishes it easily, flailing his palms a little before Jacqueline turns so he can climb onto her back with a smile.

With a sigh she stands up, loosening his grip on her neck slightly and hooking both of his spindly legs in her arms. "Enjoy it while you can, chéri. Pretty soon I'm going to be too old for this."

"What's that mean?" He says quietly into her ear, because they've talked about him being too-loud-too-close before.

"It means that when people get old," She says, picking her purse up from the ground and beginning to walk in the direction of the Enjolras', "Their bones don't work as well, and they can't carry heavy things. And when you get old, you will be heavier, and my bones will be weaker."

"That's dumb." Combeferre scoffs, pressing his nose into his mother's hair. "Maybe I'll make your bones strong when I'm big. I'll make a magic potion and then you can carry me everywhere!"

Jacqueline laughs, shifting her son slightly on her back. "I look forward to it, my little wizard."

\---

Enjolras leans through the stair railings, watching his father talk to Combeferre's mom. Behind her, Combeferre peeks out from the side of his mother's legs, eyes wide and searching as he looks around the house as if committing everything in it to memory. He's got an almost-brown dark orange sweater on, and it falls down past his tiny hands, obviously at least a size too big for him. Enjolras frowns at the sight of it.

"Enjolras." Comes his mother's voice as she moves to stand by her son and tuts in disapproval. "What are you doing up here?"

Ignoring the question, Enjolras waves his hand furiously, beckoning his mother closer. When the woman leans down obligingly, Enjolras whispers excitedly, " _What's wrong with his clothes_?"

"What?"

"They're so _big_." Enjolras says, eyes wide as he throws his hands out to the side, as if to demonstrate the imponderable immensity of Combeferre's sweater.

"They probably used to be his older brother or sister's, pumpkin."

Enjolras blinks in confusion, looking back down at Combeferre, who's shuffling from foot to foot and staring unashamedly around their house, unusually large eyes flicking curiously around the space. "Why doesn't he have his own clothes?"

Mrs. Enjolras shrugs, frowning slightly. "They can't afford new clothes for both children."

"What's that mean?"

"They're _poor_ , baby." She tucks a strand of hair behind his ear and sighs frustratedly, straightening the collar of his shirt and patting him gently on the head, twice.

Enjolras nods, once. "What's _that_ mean?"

"They don't have a lot of money, and can't buy nice things like we can."

Eyes wide at the injustice of that statement, Enjolras looks back towards Combeferre. "Why not?"

"They just _can't_ , Enjolras. It's not polite to ask why people are poor, you know."

"Sorry, mom."

Mrs. Enjolras hums softly in acknowledgement, before holding out her hand to her son. "Come on, let's get you downstairs. You can show Combeferre your room, and all your new toys!"

As they climb down the stairs, Enjolras watches the strange boy with not a lot of money as the boy watches him right back. His hair is mussed up and his shirt is too big for him, and he's got a tiny, squishy nose and gigantic eyes. "Jacqueline, isn't he just a _doll_ ," Mrs. Enjolras coos as they reach the ground floor, smiling broadly at the woman. Enjolras usually doesn't understand his mother when she talks to other grown-ups, and this time is no exception; Combeferre doesn't look like a doll. If anything, he looks like an armadillo. "Enjolras, say hi to Jacqueline and little Combeferre."

"Hi." Enjolras says in a small voice, trying to hide behind his mother, but she pushes him forward with a firm hand on his back.

"Enjolras, aren't you going to give Jacqueline a hug?"

"No."

" _Enjolras_!" His father hisses indignantly.

Jacqueline waves them off, smiling down at the frowning bundle of blond curls and delicate freckles that is the littlest Enjolras. "If he doesn't want to hug, that's fine. We have an arrangement." To illustrate, she reaches out her fist and Enjolras mirrors the movement to fist-bump her with a small grin. "Ange, this is my son, Combeferre. He's your age."

"Hi." Combeferre says in a smile voice, wiggling only two of his fingers in a strange half-wave.

Enjolras isn't sure how he feels about the quiet boy with not a lot of money and the weird wave, though he's pretty sure his name is dragon language, but he waves back. "Hello."

"Enjolras, do you want to take Combeferre to your room?"  Mr. Enjolras says, in a tone that makes it clear it's not really a question. Enjolras nods, still looking at dragon-name boy with wide eyes.

"It's this way," He says quietly, gesturing for Combeferre to follow.

The other boy looks at him with wide, terrified eyes before pulling at his mother's jeans. "Mo- _om_ ," He whines, before Jacqueline smiles and nods her understanding and hands him his blanket. She  leans down and wraps him into a big, tight, hug (maybe poor moms don't have to worry about messing up their dresses with hugs), whispering something into his ear as she does so. Combeferre smiles up at her and scurries to stand beside Enjolras, who still isn't sure about this kid.

Enjolras walks in front of him to the room, and thinks it's a little bit weird that the kid takes so much time staring at everything in the hallway. Casting him a sideways glance, Enjolras says, "Why are you holding a blanket?"

Combeferre scrunches his forehead in thought, then shuffles in a half-skip as they walk. "Because I like it."

Enjolras thinks that's as good a reason as any and smiles kindly at the other boy. Shuffling his socked feet along the carpeted hallway, he stops in front of his room to open the door with a smile, remembering what his mother said about trying to be nice. "Is it soft?" He says quietly, as Combeferre walks through the doorway.

"Uh-huh." Combeferre says, dazed, as he looks around Enjolras' room in awe. Enjolras can't understand why- it's nothing special. The slide attached to his bunk bed isn't fun anymore, he broke his drum set last week, and his TV only has cartoons. The only cool thing is the fly that got stuck in his window two days ago- if you hit the glass it goes _crazy_.

"Can I feel?" Enjolras says, and Combeferre scrunches up his nose, confused, before he realizes that Enjolras is talking about his blanket.

Pulling the blanket close to his chest, he shakes his head furiously. "No. He's my Louis."

"Louis?" Enjolras says, eyes wide and voice soft.

"That's his name."

"My best friend's name is Louis!" Enjolras cries, staring at the boy with a mixture of wonder and glee. "But, um, he's not real."

Combeferre smiles a bit awkwardly, only showing the top row of his teeth (which is mostly gaps, anyway). "That's okay, my brother used to pretend I wasn't real all the time. It can be pretty cool sometimes."

"Those are his clothes, huh?" Enjolras blurts, then blushes. "My mom told me."

"Yeah..." Combeferre makes a face as he picks at the hem of his shirt. "He likes orange. _A lot_."

"Ew, gross."

"I know!" Combeferre says, smiling openly at him. "Orange is the worst color ever."

Enjolras nods so much it looks a bit like his body is trying to shake loose his head. Blushing, he leans in to Combeferre to whisper, "I like pink, but mom says it's a girl's color."

Combeferre frowns, putting his hands on his hips. "That's dumb. Nina's a girl, and she _hates_ pink."

" _Really_?" Enjolras breathes, eyes wide. Combeferre nods very matter-of-factly, before turning to walk around the length of Enjolras' room, leaving it's owner in the middle of the floor, staring off into the new world that's been opened for him, because _there's a girl who doesn't like pink_. " _Whoa_." He whispers, then turns around to see Combeferre on his tiptoes, inspecting Enjolras' action figure shelf.

"I like your toys." He says quietly, poking one of the figures with his pinky finger. "Who's this guy? He's dressed funny."

Enjolras stares at Combeferre, then the action figure, then back at the weird, dragon-name boy with not a lot of money and a weird wave who _doesn't know who Captain America is_. "That's _Captain America_."

"Oh." Combeferre pokes the figure again. "Cool."

Enjolras just stares at him s'more."You don't know who Captain America is?"

"Nope!" He chirps, moving to the side to poke Wonder Woman (his most prized action figure; when his dad told him he wouldn't buy him a girl superhero toy, no matter how sparkly her whip was, it took probably ten whole minutes of tantrum to get his way- it was quite a struggle).

"He's a superhero. So's she. That's Wonder Woman and her Lasso of Truth!"

"Ohh. Cool."

"Yeah, she's my favorite." Enjolras twists his fingers together, rocking on his heels before he just _has_ to say it. "I'm gonna be a superhero when I grow up." Combeferre glances at him then, expression curious and almost eager. "I'll save the whole world and beat up all the bad guys so no one gets hurt no more." For some reason, Enjolras feels compelled to poke him in the side as he asks, "What are you gonna be when you grow up?"

Combeferre looks startled at the poke, but smiles nonetheless. "I'm gonna be an astronaut."

"That's _awesome_." Enjolras whispers reverently, staring at Combeferre. "Are you going to go to the moon?"

Combeferre blinks twice in confusion, and looks happy to have someone interested. "I'm going to go all over space, and I'll find an awesome new planet with no oil so there won't be fighting anymore, and it'll have good air so no one gets sick there."

"You are _so cool_."

Combeferre shakes his head. "You're way more cool. You're gonna save people!"

Enjolras frowns. "So are you."

Thinking about Enjolras' point, Combeferre pulls his hand away from the action figures and considers, "...maybe we can save them together?"

"Sure!" Enjolras' face lights up at the prospect.

Combeferre looks down at the blanket in his hands, before reaching out to wrap it around Enjolras' shoulders. "Here," He says, tiny fingers working a loose knot into the fabric. "When Nina plays superhero she always has a cape."

" _Whoah_." Enjolras whispers in delight, before spinning on his heel and struggling to see the fabric over his shoulder. "This is so cool! Now you can work for me and we can save people together!" He cries, still spinning and chasing the fabric.

Combeferre sticks out his tongue, giggling at Enjolras as he turns in quick, frustrated circles. "I'll work _with_ you, dummy."

"Oh." Enjolras stops himself mid-spin, then almost falls over, stumbling over his own feet and grinning wildly at Combeferre as the other boy laughs. Straightening himself out, Enjolras takes a deep breath. "Okay then. With me." He grabs Combeferre's hand and tugs at it, a toothy grin lighting up his face as he cries, "Come on- if you slide down the stairs it feels like you can fly!" Before pulling a stumbling Combeferre out of the room, the two of them laughing as they race down the hall, hands clenched together.

(the next time Combeferre goes over, he teaches Enjolras how to make mudpies. The time after that, they steal cookies from the kitchen as Combeferre tries and fails to teach Enjolras how not to get caught- their best friendship is cemented when Enjolras doesn't say a single word about the whole thing being Combeferre's idea- and spend an afternoon looking through Enjolras' comic book collection as Enjolras educates Combeferre on the classics. Combeferre is added to the list of three people in the world Enjolras will voluntarily hug, and within a month the two of them are inseparable.

That summer, after a solid week of Enjolras refusing to eat or speak to his parents, Mr. and Mrs. Enjolras pull every string they've got to get Combeferre into Enjolras' private elementary school, and on a _scholarship_ , no less. In exchange, he never does get that red bike with the pink basket.

Walking hand-in-hand with Combeferre on the first day of school with matching Wonder Woman backpacks, Enjolras could honestly not care less.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i'm sorry for not updating feel free to yell at me


	22. How They Met (Part Two)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> how i met your courfeyrac

Marius is not the most graceful of people. In fact, he regularly trips while standing still. Once, he threw his bookbag so quickly over his shoulder that he managed to actually tackle himself to the ground with it. So he should really know better than to not look where he's going while he's walking, but- well, he's a bit distracted.

Recently poor, homeless, jobless, and cherishing every precious second he has left with his phone (until his grandfather remembers that he's paying for the device and cancels Marius' plan), Marius is not having the greatest of weeks. The only apartment he could vaguely afford in the listings is owned by a strange old white man who speaks rapid German about eighty percent of the time, so Marius has been forced to learn German just to try to keep up. Apparently, the last tenant died in a freak toaster explosion, and the building is said to be cursed.

It should be a good indication of how Marius Pontmercy lives his life that a freak toaster explosion does not sound like a blatant lie to him, but rather a completely reasonable turn of events.

The man (whose name he still can't _quite_ figure out) is willing to let him rent week-to-week for the time being, but the problem with that is that Marius doesn't _actually_ have any money. At all. He's been sleeping in the cheapest motel he could find for the past week (it's got roaches and suspicious stains in the carpet, and three days ago he found a crack pipe behind the ancient TV) and he's got maybe fifty bucks left on him to hold him until- well, the rest of his life.

As he scrolls furiously through job listings in the area, muttering a few choice french swears under his breath (let's call it a linguistic exercise), he wonders how exactly he's supposed to get a job with zero experience and no proof of residency and seven items of clothing. _And_ somehow manage to fit law classes into his life.

But Marius Pontmercy is very calm, and composed, and pushes the mind-numbing terror out of his mind to focus on the task at hand.

However, he is so focused on the task at hand that he fails to notice the backpack lying in the grass directly in front of him until it's too late; his foot collides with it, and suddenly he's flying through the air in front of roughly a million of his classmates scattered across the quad.

In the millisecond where his entire body just goes _...merde_ , Marius has one conscious thought: _protect the cellphone_. Extending it above him, he puts all of his energy into not landing on it or letting it break, because that would ruin his only hope at making some actual money.

His other hand flies back on impulse, and Marius feels something wrap quickly around his wrist, scrunching the soft material of his sleeve. He ignores it, obviously, because _he's about to fall flat on his face_ , and shuts his eyes tight, waiting for the impact.

Then there's a heavy, solid presence pressing against his waist and back, the cold, hard ground never gets personal with his face, and Marius seems to be frozen in mid-air.

He wonders if maybe he's dead.

"Seriously, I perform what is possibly the smoothest move of my entire life and you had your eyes closed the _whole time_? What a _waste_."

Marius opens one eye hesitantly.

Directly above him is a grinning, darkish-skinned, curly haired man who has to be around Marius' own age-  and who's holding onto one of Marius' arms and seems to have caught him in a sort of dipping position a couple feet off the ground. "Hello." He says, smiling impossibly wider at Marius, who lets out a garbled excuse for words that could maybe considered a greeting among crab people.

Clearing his throat, Marius stares straight ahead at the man's face. "Uh, I- thanks?"

"Don't worry about it, I'm just gonna stay here and relish the moment for a second." The man hums thoughtfully, then pulls Marius to his feet. "Alright, relishing over. You okay?"

"I'm-" Marius looks down at his clothes, then to his (still unbroken!) phone. "Thank you."

"Anytime. I'm Courfeyrac and I'll be your knight in shining armor today." Courfeyrac smiles, holding out his hand for Marius to shake. "My specialties include smooth-ass French dips in the middle of the quad and offers to help you out a bit with the course load. If it's super complicated stuff, I am one-hundred percent willing to offer the services of my best friend."

Marius frowns. "The... course load?"

"Sure." Courfeyrac shrugs. "I mean, no offense, but you kinda look like a zombie. So I'm guessing not enough sleep, and too much homework?"

Too many things going wrong is probably more accurate, but Courfeyrac doesn't need to know that. "Um, but you don't know what I'm taking?"

Courfeyrac lights up then- his smile doesn't widen and his position doesn't change, but his eyes twinkle with delight. "Do we not have class together?" He says slowly, grinning around the words.

"Um, no, I- I haven't seen you, are you in-"

"Because I coulda sworn we had chemistry." Courfeyrac cuts him off with a wiggling of his eyebrows and a mischievous yet completely satisfied smirk.

"Oh, I'm not taking any science courses."

Courfeyrac's face falls, before he raises both eyebrows as if he's trying to tell Marius something with only the little strips of hair on his forehead. "No, we have _chemistry_. You know, the fun kind."

Marius frowns. "I'm really not the science type; I tend to cause explosions or accidentally make lethal poisons and stuff."

"You-" Courfeyrac shakes his head slowly, gaping at Marius. "What's your name, kid?"

"Marius."

Courfeyrac mouths the word, like he's feeling the taste of it between his lips. "Alright, well, I was right wasn't I? It's the courseload?"

"Uh- not really, I just-" Marius sighs, bringing his hand up to scratch uncomfortably at the back of his neck. "Well, I need a job but to get a job I need an apartment and to get an apartment I need a job because I have _no money_ and less street sense than a muppet- except maybe the scary yellow one but tha-"

" _Big bird_?" Courfeyrac interrupts incredulously.

"Yes?"

Courfeyrac gives him a curious look, before breaking out into that huge smile Marius has grown somewhat accustomed to in the past couple of minutes. "So you need a place to live, huh? You could move in with me."

"Wh-what."

Courfeyrac shrugs. "My parents bought me an apartment off-campus; they don't really trust dorm rooms. My friends are opting for the traditional dorm experience, and I could do with the company."

"You-" Marius stares at him, as his brain works furiously, trying to understand what he's being offered. "You don't even know me."

"I know you just referred to Big Bird as 'the scary yellow one'." Courfeyrac shrugs, smiling with his almost surreally white teeth. "And you managed to almost face-plant because you tripped over a backpack strap. If you're a serial killer, at least you'll make things interesting before murdering me in my sleep."

Marius laughs hesitantly, because he's still, understandably, in shock. "I don't- I mean, are you actually being serious? Because if this is a joke, fair warning, I will cry on you."

"It's not a joke." Grinning at him, Courfeyrac pulls out his phone from his back pocket, unlocking it with a few swipes of his thumb before glancing up at Marius. "Gimme your digits, I'll text you the address, and you can come over and check the place up. I mean, okay, I feel like I should warn you; it is like, a block and a half from campus which is _excellent_ , but-" He pauses, smiling meekly. "It's only a four bedroom place; it was all that was left, I took the biggest one but you are _totally_ welcome to whichever one you want."

Marius find himself gaping at Courfeyrac again, wondering where the hell this person even came from. "...four bedrooms?" He says weakly.

"Yeah," Courfeyrac gives a weak, awkward smile. "Is that a deal breaker?"

"I'm living in a one-room motel room off the interstate." Marius says. "I take three buses to get to school, my next-door neighbor keeps trying to sell me meth, and I've got so many roaches I've started naming them."

Courfeyrac blinks twice, as if trying to figure out if Marius is joking, before making a low, sympathetic noise. He looks at Marius with kind eyes. "Do you want a hug?"

The question throws Marius off-guard, firstly because this boy doesn't look uncomfortable or guilty but _genuinely_ sympathetic, like he really does care about Marius, and secondly: because he realizes he hasn't hugged anyone in at least a month. He lets out a shaky breath. "I would really like that, yeah."

Courfeyrac rushes him, and he's a few inches shorter than Marius so he kind of smashes his face into Marius' shoulder and wraps his arms around Marius' waist. As Marius slowly begins to hug back, Courfeyrac mutters, "You're scarily thin, Marius."

"I-" Marius considers saying he's naturally skinny (he is, but even he can recognize when his weight is dropping), but figures, what the hell, honesty has gotten him this far (mostly because he cannot lie to save his life). "I only have so much left in pre-paid meals. I-I’ve been trying to save money by eating once a day."

"We're going to get breakfast as soon as I'm done hugging you."

"I can't affor-"

"I'm buying you breakfast as soon as I'm done hugging you."

"Oh, seriously, you don't have to-"

"And then I'm helping you find a job." Courfeyrac mutters, squeezing Marius a little tighter. "Don't argue, it's not charity, it's an investment. If you're malnourished you won't be able to work, and if you don't work you can't pay a share of the rent."

Marius gulps. Right. The- rent problem. "Um, about rent-"

"Shut up I'm not actually charging you rent." Courfeyrac sighs, finally untangling himself from Marius to take a step back and smile at him. "When you've got an income, you pay me what you can. Until then, don't worry about it."

"I- thank- I don't-" Marius stutters, trying to put all of his feelings into words. Courfeyrac waits for him to get the words out with a fond smile, and Marius can feel himself blushing under his gaze as he finally manages to stammer out in a relieved breath, "I'm really glad I tripped over that backpack."

Courfeyrac beams at him, then shrugs almost imperceptibly. "I'm just glad I'm here to catch you."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> lemme know if i've made any errors and feel free to come chat and/or yell at me on tumblr :)

**Author's Note:**

> For Your Convenience, the Chapters In Chronological Order:
> 
> how they met (all three parts)  
> cuddling somewhere  
> dancing  
> hanging out with friends  
> making out  
> on a date  
> morning rituals  
> spooning  
> hurt/comfort  
> eating ice cream together  
> in a different clothing style  
> doing something together  
> in battle; side-by-side  
> holding hands  
> in formal wear (bonus)  
> watching a movie  
> cosplaying  
> wearing each other’s clothes  
> shopping  
> in formal wear  
> kissing


End file.
